


Satisfied

by sungjiins



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Alternate Universe - No Nen, Ballroom Dancing, Falling In Love, M/M, Politics, Romantic Fluff, Royalty AU, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Thriller, background hisoillu banter, gon is a foreigner, historical inaccuracy (probably), killua's a prince!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungjiins/pseuds/sungjiins
Summary: “Brother, what-cha looking at?” Alluka piped up from his side, where she’d been bouncing crazily a second prior. “You’re all hot and bothered!”“Huh? Me?” he forced a chuckle, aware of the blush that was quickly spreading over his pale cheeks. “I’m perfectly fine, Alluka! Say, do you know that black-haired gentleman over there by any chance? Perhaps he has a sister that you’re friends with?”In honour of Princess Alluka's twelfth birthday, the Zoldyck family decides to host a royal ball for the Kukuroo kingdom to enjoy. Commoners from all walks of life are invited — and among them is a certain man who catches Killua's eye.
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 78
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is dedicated to my wife mari kisses for u <3

The Kukuroo kingdom was notorious for its overly strict rules and policies. Those who did not toe the line would be severely punished by the army of watchful guards, be they tourists or citizens. The land was dominated by coarse, ugly-looking ferns and nettles which caught on clothes and scratched on skin, much like barbed wire. But despite the unpleasantries that the kingdom had to offer, it managed to do one thing exceedingly well, and that was throw some of the nation’s best parties.

The Zoldycks, the family that had been ruling the land for the past several centuries, were reportedly _excellent_ hosts. They weren’t afraid to go all-out with the castle’s décor, hiring renowned designers from across the globe to brighten up the palace’s interior according to the theme of the party. Prince Milluki would scout the finest chefs in all of Padokea who would cook up such delightful dishes, that the party guests rarely went home with their stomachs empty. Usually, only esteemed citizens of the kingdom were invited for these lavish celebrations but this year, the young Princess Alluka had second thoughts.

“Father, I want to invite everyone in the nearest villages! It’s so unfair that they have so little, while we get to live in this enormous palace.”

Silva Zoldyck was by no means a lenient king, and the same applied to his fatherly nature. He had no issues with sorting his children out, going as far as to use physical force against them if they were too troublesome. Hearing these words leave his only daughter’s mouth, however, made him reconsider the family’s tradition of only inviting fellow royals. She was soon to be twelve years old, and Silva wanted so desperately for her to enjoy her birthday. Alluka was a gentle soul, ever-selfless and caring, and if inviting the poor villagers would make her happy, who was he to deny her this?

So, he bowed his head, his silver curls falling across his shoulders. “Very well. We shall invite all the residents of the three nearest villages. Perhaps you will make more friends that way.”

His agreement sparked an instant reaction from his daughter, the smile that bloomed on her face making it evident how delighted she was. She flung her arms around his shoulders and proceeded to hurry out of the throne room, presumably to tell her siblings this news. Silva allowed himself a smile, glad that his wife, Kikyo, hadn’t been around to overhear the conversation for once. She would never have permitted the ‘peasants’ to set foot in the extravagant home of the Zoldycks.

And that’s how the common people of the neighbouring towns and villages found themselves dressing up in their best finery on a starry Friday evening. For the past two weeks, the town squares had been flooded with overstrung shoppers, anxious to purchase an adequate gift for the young princess. Now, as they entered the castle through its hefty, gilded double doors, they realised just how different their lives were to the royal family’s. Pink and gold ribbons hung from the ceiling like dainty, little snakes, skimming over the gorgeously-painted walls. Several tables, decked with palatable starters, stood in a quaint dining room, situated next to the ballroom. This type of luxury was unimaginable.

The Zoldyck children were in a similar, more repressed, state of shock. They’d never been allowed an opportunity to mingle with their kingdom’s people, having been confined to the castle for their entire lives. Their friends were their own tutors, their vacations (however rarely they happened) were spent in a mansion in the United States of Saherta. They’d only ever been introduced to fellow members of the elite class and had no knowledge of the workings of the outside world. And naturally, each child had a different reaction to these ‘commoners’, that were so taken with the grand palace.

Killua Zoldyck, for one, was unabashedly, unapologetically staring at each of their guests. He took his time drinking in this foreign picture of young ladies dancing with one another, men and women laughing over flutes of champagne, looking pleased to be wearing their most handsome clothes. He itched to join the crowd and mingle with the people that he’d been hidden away from, to giggle and crack jokes with them. If only he knew the correct way to approach them…

The snowy-haired man looked over to the side, where his eldest brother, Illumi, was stood by himself. His eyebrows were pinched in irritation, ebony-coloured eyes hardening at the sight of the newcomers. Killua grimaced, hoping to God that his brother’s blunt rudeness wouldn’t ruin anyone’s night—especially Alluka’s. His gaze softened as he glimpsed her prancing across the room, already in conversation with village girls of her age. This party meant a lot to her as it was a break from tradition, and he knew it. Anybody who dared to spoil it in the slightest would have Killua to deal with.

The guests milled around the ballroom, amicably sharing appetisers and making small-talk under the glow of a hundred lights. Soft music could be heard floating across the room, coming from the top of a staircase, where a miniature orchestra was positioned. Killua knew that the light-hearted march was currently being played would soon change into a slow-paced waltz, which could only mean one thing: dancing with a partner. 

Now, Killua was no major socialite but he could appreciate a good ball. This part, however? He resented it. At previous parties, partner dancing had meant being forced to link hands with the daughter of a nobleman and swing her around the room, while maintaining eye contact. What was worse, was that the girls often expected for him to keep in touch after their ten-minute jig. Killua simply didn’t have it in him to refuse their requests to exchange letters. Nor did he have it in him to actually reply to their letters.

Undoubtedly, the same scene would play out at this ball as well. His mother had made sure to invite a few upperclassmen and women to the party just so _“it doesn’t seem like a charity event”_ , and Killua was sure one of their daughters would come running up to him as soon as the lights dimmed. 

He ambled slowly about the spacious ballroom, head dipped to the floor, brimming with visions of his impending doom. Maybe he should pretend to injure his foot to save himself from the awkwardness, or maybe—

A sturdy shoulder suddenly met with his own, knocking him back a couple paces and stilling his thoughts.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going, I hope I didn’t hurt you?” a sweet, clearly alarmed voice spoke from his front. Ruffling his clothes back in place, Killua turned to look at the stranger, ready to dismiss them with a nod. What he was _not_ ready for, was to be met with honey-coloured eyes and a painstakingly gorgeous face.

His breath hitched. Had he been knocked dead? Was he staring into the eyes of God? It certainly felt like it, with how his heart was racing at the mere sight of this stranger’s face. He wished it would stop, not particularly wanting a high blood pressure this early on in life.

“No! I mean…that’s fine, it was my fault, I was looking at the ground—”

“Oh nonsense, it was definitely my fault, did you see how fast I was going?”

“Well, no, I did say I was looking at the ground…”

“Uh, yeah. Right!” The stranger’s copper cheeks turned faintly pink, his hands rubbing the back of his neck in an embarrassed gesture. “I’ll…get going now! Bye!” he said, striding off in the other direction with such force that he nearly slipped on the polished floor.

“Bye,” Killua repeated, somewhat breathless. Who in the _hell_ was that? That man had no right whatsoever to come in here and run off with Killua’s heart like that. And more importantly, where had he escaped to? Try as he might, the prince had no luck finding him in his own castle. This man was clearly a force to be reckoned with, yet Killua had a hard time getting his enchanting grin out of his mind.

The march finally eased to an end and not even a minute later, the lutists began to strum a popular Padokean square-dance tune. The room broke into a sweet chaos as the guests recognised the melody one-by-one, people spinning and twirling until they became giddy, in their own groups. Killua watched this display in awe; it was nothing like the formal dances that took place at a royals-only party. He glanced at Illumi and Milluki, who were perched on adjacent chairs at the corner of the room, stifling a laugh with his hand. Illumi couldn’t have looked more mad if he tried, and Milluki? He was a lost cause, pigging on the buns that he’d piled in his coat pocket, not batting an eye in the direction of his guests.

Somebody grabbed his hand from his side and he startled, spinning around in shock only to see Alluka clutching onto it with a beaming smile. Her hair was no longer in its neat braid and instead in messy tangles, which was a lovely look on her if he were to be honest. More importantly, she looked overjoyed at the spectacle taking place before them, something he felt like personally thanking each and every guest for.

“Come on, brother! Let’s join in!” she squealed over the noise, imitating the villagers’ steps. Smiling at his sister’s excitement, he allowed himself to be led into the crowd. He’d never participated in such an event in his life, and despite his hate for congested places, he couldn’t deny that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His mimicry of the dance would no doubt have gotten him a failing grade had his dance instructor been around to witness it, but did it really matter when he was having so much fun? He’d never felt so warm and bubbly inside, not even after tasting the finest champagne the country had to offer.

And there he saw him again—the stranger. The man who’d been virtually living inside of Killua’s head the entire ball, for no good reason. He was talking to two ladies, laughing open-mouthed and twirling them by their hands. The light seemed to hit his skin at the perfect angle, revealing a tinge of green in his spiky, black hair. His eyes shone with mirth and all of a sudden locked onto Killua’s own.

Just as Killua felt his head empty itself of all coherent thought, the man shot him the same dazzling smile from before. He recognised Killua! Well, seeing as Killua was a prince, it couldn’t have been too difficult for him to remember but…he’d really recognised him!

“Brother, what-cha looking at?” Alluka piped up from his side, where she’d been bouncing crazily a second prior. “You’re all hot and bothered!”

“Huh? Me?” he forced a chuckle, aware of the blush that was quickly spreading over his pale cheeks. “I’m perfectly fine, Alluka! Say, do you know that black-haired gentleman over there by any chance? Perhaps he has a sister that you’re friends with?”

His sister whipped her head around in the direction he was pointing and slowly turned back, returning with a devilish smirk bright on her cheeky, pre-teen face. Killua immediately decided that he wasn’t a fan of it.

“Hmm, what about that man?” she teased, a smirk visible on her face. “Did he catch your eye? Your heart as well, maybe?”

Where had she learned to talk like this? What sort of books was she reading these days? If she hadn’t been his own sister, Killua would have flown into a major panic at the thought of being figured out by somebody _this_ quickly.

“Don’t be so silly! I just thought he looked familiar—maybe a son of the nobleman down south that Father’s friendly with?” He was pushing it. Clearly, Alluka didn’t believe a smidge of the junk he was spewing; she had her eyebrows raised in an eerie way of which Illumi would be proud. Killua gulped.

“You should go talk to him, brother,” was all she said, managing to stare him down despite being a whole foot shorter. He nodded, already envisioning each way in which their inevitable interaction could go wrong. Yet, if he didn’t gather the courage to confront this beauty by the end of the night, he’d never forgive himself.

The fervour of celebration started diminishing as the night passed. The village children, not being in the habit of staying up so late, started to yawn and lay their heads in their mothers’ laps—even Alluka’s movements became languid. This, for Killua, meant that the time for slow dancing had finally come.

It was somewhat of a Zoldyck tradition for each Prince to find a partner to perform the dance with. The three eldest brothers would take to the centre of the ballroom, while the rest of the guests watched from the sides. Killua supposed it was a closing dance of sorts, and although he’d been doing it several times a year since he’d turned thirteen, it was no less daunting each time. Being gawked at by a thousand strangers was never easy, whether you were a prince or not. 

Besides, girls from rich families usually approached _him_ for the slow dance, so he’d never had to worry about his partner’s dancing capabilities. What he was about to do was not just slightly-tabooed. What if the spiky-haired menace didn’t _know_ how to dance? Or what if he rejected Killua?

But there was simply no time to waste in thinking about the what-ifs. If he’d learned _anything_ from his dance tutor, Biscuit, it had to be that. His mother was eyeing him with that ‘what-are-you-slacking-around-for’ look from ten feet away, anyways.

Killua snuck a quick look at the clock that hung near the staircase. He had, at most, ten minutes before he’d be subjected to public judgment. Ten minutes for him to ask the damned guy.

As the countdown started, however, Killua nearly decided that speaking to the stranger was more trouble than it was worth. How was he always preoccupied in a conversation? Did he really know everybody in all the three invited villages? No matter when Killua looked, the man was talking to somebody else, making excited hand-gestures which Killua _would_ fawn over, if not for the current circumstances.

The lights began to dull, the music approached a diminuendo. One minute to go. Kikyo Zoldyck was screeching at him about dancing with some girl she was holding by the wrist and—the stranger was finally alone.

Killua almost ran to him. He was placing his emptied flute of champagne on a dinky table, seemingly lost in thought. He looked surprised to see Killua in front of him, flushed and harried.

“Would you like to dance?” the prince spluttered.

The stranger’s face visibly brightened, despite how dark the ballroom had become. “Dance? I’d love to!” He stopped, looking at the guests that were crowding to the edge. “But is the ball not over? Everybody seems to be leaving…”

“No, uh, they’re just making some space for. The dancers. I mean us. And my brothers.” 

Killua wished to smack himself.

“Oh, if they’re making space for you, you must be an amazing dancer!” he exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “I’d be honoured to dance with you. Sorry if I can’t keep up…but I’m not a bad dancer myself!” At this, the man winked and effectively sent Killua’s mind into orbit.

Before he had the chance to reply, a soft romantic piece was introduced to the room, and stilled all conversation among the partygoers. The melody wove its way into the audience’s heart, embracing the ears of each listener and beckoning the three princes to the centre.

With his heart in his throat, Killua led his handsome stranger to the dance floor. The ebony-haired man seemed to take no notice of Killua’s anxiety, mouth curving up appreciatively at the tune. He looked enchanting in the dimness of the hall. Killua found himself lost in his smile. Somewhere far off, he could hear a voice introducing Padokea’s three princes and their respective partners, but paid it no heed. 

The dance commenced with a flourish, just as the vielles entered the piece. With his hands wrapped warmly around the stranger’s, he felt a spark of confidence that hadn’t existed before—it was all he needed to break out of his stupor and place a gentle hand on the man’s waist. His partner seemed to get the hint and without another second wasted in unnecessary gawping, the two were off in their own world. Their bodies moved as if in sync, drifting elegantly across the shining floor. The stranger’s hand was rough in texture but gripped Killua’s own with a delightful softness. His brown eyes shimmered as their dance got more and more complex, his mouth quirking up in a type of smile that looked so different to the one he’d been wearing all night.

In his peripheral vision, Killua could make out Illumi and Milluki entertaining two randomly-picked noblewomen in the same dance. He almost felt sorry for the ladies until a tender press to his shoulder brought him back to his own affairs. _His_ partner was smirking at him in a way that caused Killua’s face to redden an embarrassing amount.

“You wanna out-dance them, huh?” he suggested slyly, voice low, eyes lidded.

Killua almost let out a laugh. Out-dance Illumi, a dancer so gifted that he had only ever lost to Biscuit Kreuger in all the kingdom’s competitions? It was ridiculous to imagine, _undoable_. But something about those narrowed eyes ate away at Killua’s sanity and for once, he allowed himself to imagine the unimaginable.

“Why not?”

It was clearly the right thing to have said: the man giggled, and before Killua could make sense of the situation, brought the prince’s hand up to his shoulder and took the lead.

The two began a simple bolero, their changed dance style and graceful movements attracting the attention of the guests. It was a massive shift for Killua, who had been trained to lead in ballroom dances since the start of his education, to be dipped and twirled like all the girls he’d previously danced with but it was possibly the most exciting thing he’d experienced. Just _where_ had this stranger learned to move his body in such a sweet way?

Almost all eyes were on them now—Killua could nearly sense the smothering hostility emanating from his mother. Their steps were becoming larger and bolder, encompassing the remaining two princes in a sorry little sphere. They were close enough to hear the murmur of the audience now.

“Aren’t they charming,” an older woman gushed to her neighbour, placing her hands over her heart. 

The lady stood beside her looked positively alarmed. “I’d say. But it’s awfully brave of the lad to lead the prince in a dance like this! I wonder where he gets the courage from.”

In a heartbeat, the stranger’s grip on Killua’s hand became twice as intense. He looked at the raven-haired man quizzically before he felt himself being led back to the centre of the ballroom. His partner’s eyes had widened to a great extent and for perhaps the first time that night, _he_ was the one blushing.

“You—” he choked, “you’re the _prince_?”

Out of all the possible reasons Killua had been expecting for his change in mood, _this_ had not been one.

“What? Did you not know?” he spluttered.

“No!” his partner exclaimed; a tad bit too loud for his liking. “I mean, was I supposed to? You don’t have a badge or anything!”

“Oh my god,” Killua said, and when the silence stretched out for too long, he repeated it. “Oh my god. How—are you even from around here?”

“That’s the thing you see. I’m from a small island, I arrived in Padokea two weeks ago! By the time I got to Fadae village, the people were in a craze about the princess’ birthday party and I decided to go with them to get properly acquainted and stuff.” The man looked beyond stressed at this admission. His movements were getting jittery and unfocused, as if his brain was shutting off entirely.

But to the foreigner’s blatant surprise (as well as Killua's own), the prince laughed. It wasn’t a quiet sort of chuckle either—he was practically cackling, head thrown backwards and mouth open in an uncharacteristic grin. He could see Illumi’s dissatisfied gaze from across the room but it didn’t have the usually intended effect on him. How could it, when his dance partner was this _adorable_?

“Stop it!” the man hissed, paling once his words dawned on him. “I mean um, forgive me, your Highness I—”

“Oh, give it up,” Killua interrupted, face stretched in an impossibly broad smile. “You can call me Killua.”

His face immediately lit up. “Killua? Are you sure you’re fine with me calling you that?”

Killua felt impossibly light in that moment, his partner’s company and energy fuelling him much more than any alcohol ever had. He idly wondered whether one could become addicted to this wonderful feeling. For all his years surrounded by noblemen, noblewomen, and countless courtiers, he’d never quite laughed like this, never quite smiled like this. It was exhilarating.

“I’m completely fine with that,” he beamed. “And you? What may I call you, oh handsome stranger?”

The man didn’t answer immediately, lengthening his steps and leading the dance at a slower pace than before. _Stalling for time_ , Killua noted. Their eyes were glued onto the other’s, unblinking and soulful. Killua let himself be pulled into the sway of their lethargic rhythm, heart pounding in a thrill. 

And all of a sudden, the hand on his waist was guiding him further and further down, into a scarily low dip. It would’ve been so easy for the stranger to drop Killua at that moment, to ruin their routine, to embarrass the prince in front of his own kingdom. But the calloused hand supporting the small of his back kept sturdy, balancing Killua’s entire upper weight.

It was then that Killua took into account their proximity. The stranger’s inviting face was just inches away from his own. His soft breaths fanned Killua’s neck and his heavy gaze locked onto the prince’s lips, which trembled at the sight before them.

“Gon Freecss,” he spoke.

And then they were back to dancing in a waltz, the rushing tempo of the music signalling that the piece was about to come to an end. The lights were starting to brighten around the glittering room, feeling much too bright to Killua, who was still recovering from his partner’s sultry introduction strategy. _What_ had just happened?

In all the time it took for Killua to regain his composure, the piece tapered off to a clean finish. His partner—Gon—led him in a final twirl and then, it was over.

The applause was deafening. The cheers and whoops were new to Killua, who had only ever experienced the bored appreciation from fellow royalty, but brought colour to his cheeks and strength to his legs. In the crowd, he could spot an excited Alluka, clapping like all the world depended on it, next to their father who looked strangely pleased. Killua looked to his side to witness Gon’s reaction, only to find his partner already crazily grinning at him. The happiness on his face made the prince dizzy with endearment.

“We were so great, Killua!” he cried, grabbing his hands with glee. “I’m so happy that I got to dance with you tonight.”

Killua’s heart felt close to bursting. Was he always such a bundle of joy? Hell, was he even real? It wouldn’t have been the first time Killua had dreamed about an attractive man dancing with him.

His enchanting smile, however, wasn’t something that Killua’s mind had the ability to create on its own. The feeling of his hands, warm in the prince’s, could never be replicated in his visions. And with these facts in mind, Killua let himself indulge in this beauty.

“It was an honour to spend the night with you, Gon,” he replied with sincerity. “Where did you learn to dance so well?”

“There was an extremely talented old woman on Whale Island, who was an expert in ballroom dancing! She was lovely, made the best cookies too. And since I had tons of free time in my childhood, I often visited her cottage to learn how to dance!” he explained. “It was really fun, Killua. Although I’d say you’re much better than me!”

This was entirely incorrect. “Don’t be stupid! You were just as good, if not better. You clearly have a lot of experience.” Killua smiled. “Just how many times did you dance with that grandma?”

Gon’s jaw hung slack. 

“Are you—are you really teasing me?! Killua, you should know better, you’re a prince!” he gasped, feigning disbelief.

He was so easy to get along with, and Killua felt like evaporating into thin air at the realisation that their hands were still interlaced. He threw a helpless look to their surroundings, which were steadily growing empty of people. Hold on—had his father’s farewell speech already ended?

A quick look at his mother, who was silently ushering him towards the ballroom exits, verified his doubt. The guests were slowly filing out of the palace, taking their bubbly chatter along with them, so that the room became eerily silent within minutes.

Gon had realised this too, it seemed, as he was eyeing Killua rather sheepishly.

“Sorry for holding you up for so long…uh, I guess I’ll just go—”

He was cut off by a gentle kiss placed upon his knuckles. Killua had the back of his hand raised to his lips. He gave Gon a radiant smile and softly blew over the region his lips had touched. He could feel the man shiver from the contact.

“Where can I find you?”

“F-fadae village. Selasi’s bakery,” he stammered, a pink tinge decorating his cheeks. “Just ask around, it’s quite popular in the area.”

“Done. I’ll see you soon then, Gon.” The prince bid him a curt farewell with another smile and made his way over to the impatient Queen with a noticeable spring to his steps. Elongating their goodbye would never have worked due to the simple fact that Killua would never have been able to bring himself to leave. If he’d had the choice, he wouldn’t have let go of Gon’s lovely hands, in favour of tracing the intricate lines on his palms and listening to his stories about the dubiously-named ‘Whale Island’. In all but a few hours, the stranger had managed to capture Killua’s heart and lock it away.

Killua figured that it was okay. As long as he got to keep meeting the island boy, Gon could do whatever he pleased with his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So nice to see you, Illumi,” Hisoka drawled in welcome, slinking over to where the eldest prince was stood. He tried to go in for a hug which failed as Illumi took a quick step to the side. Killua bit back a laugh as he watched the man regain his balance._
> 
> _The amusement on the prince’s face was what led to Hisoka noticing his presence for the first time._
> 
> _“Oh my,” he said, turning to the white-haired boy. “Who do we have here? Surely not your brother, Illumi?”_
> 
> Killua yearns to meet Gon again, but there is a Himalayan-sized obstacle in his way: the entire royal family.

Killua woke to the indignant howl of a dog and a sense of longing. Silver sunlight poured into his bedroom, illuminating the polished wooden floor and the preciously-crafted bed that he was sprawled over. Another loud whine blared its way across the palace grounds with no respect for the hour, eliciting a groan from the prince, who buried himself further into his blankets. Were the butlers not tending to Mike? He usually never had outbursts like this and even less so on the cusp of the morning.

He doubted that the rest of his family had heard the dog. Killua’s room was part of the north wing, which was closest to the grounds and the butlers’ residence, making it easy for him to sneak out and get a breath of fresh air with his parents being none the wiser. Unable to get back to sleep in the midst of the din, he decided he would do just that. A morning walk could also help to ebb away the irritating lurching of his stomach; the feeling of a thousand waves rushing rampantly within him.

He slipped on a pair of leather shoes (that weren’t especially comfortable, but he seemed to have misplaced his slippers) and made his way out the door. Thankfully, there hadn’t been any guards posted outside of Killua’s room ever since he’d complained about his ‘lack of privacy’ to his mother, who had begrudgingly agreed to leave his room unprotected. It made escaping much less of a hassle and presented an advantage that Killua made full use of, as he carelessly strolled to the end of the wing.

Faraway noises could be heard coming from the kitchen where work started at the crack of dawn. Although Killua wasn’t much of a morning person, he always appreciated the homely sounds and smells that it offered, as well as the soothing atmosphere that it provided.

He trailed down marble steps that led straight down to a back door, through which there was a shortcut available to the butlers’ flat. It was a blessing to feel the cool winter air strike his face when he stepped out, despite how biting the wind was at this time of day. Out here, he hoped to pacify the overwhelming fluttery feeling in his stomach. Sadly, it was proving to be a herculean task, given the fact that the events of last night were enjoying their three-billionth replay in Killua’s mind. It made no sense that a complete foreigner’s face would permanently imprint itself into his brain like this…but at the same time, it _did_.

It made so much sense, that Killua felt his heart swell with a sudden pang of want—he craved to see Gon again.

A mournful whine sounded from a few paces ahead of him, startling the prince. He’d completely forgotten about Mike and his early-morning tantrum, and was surprised to see the giant dog being led in his direction on a leash that was so big, Alluka and Kalluto had once tried using it as a skipping rope. His walker tugged on the red rope gently, grimacing every time a drop of dog drool landed on her crisply ironed trousers. She was looking up at the grey sky in exasperation, as if she were expecting an explanation from the heavens, when she noticed Killua.

“Lord Killua! You surprised me. What brings you out here so early?”

“Hi Canary,” he smiled, glad to see her looking calm after the chaos that the party preparations had created among the staff and servants just a couple days ago. “I just felt like taking a walk, I guess. Where are you off to with him?” He craned his neck to peer up at the hound.

“Mike was griping over an old shoe he found in the grounds, at four this morning,” she huffed. “It must’ve been left behind by a guest from yesterday’s ball. Anyway, I was told to take him for a walk, so here I am.”

“Hm.” Killua usually trusted Canary’s deductions but it was rare for Mike to kick up such a big fuss over something as simple as a shoe. He hoped it wasn’t anything serious, but before he could ponder too much, Canary resumed talking.

“Would you like to come over for some tea, my Lord?” she asked, gesturing to the butlers’ flat that stood a short way ahead of them. “If you’re free to do so, that is. I hope you don’t have any urgent duties right after the night of the ball?”

At that, Killua breathed out a relieved sigh. Either his tutors had forgotten to inform him of his tasks for today, or they were letting him take a day off. It didn’t currently matter to him—it had been ages since he’d had the chance to chat with Canary. Since his parents weren’t keen on him forming too many outside relationships, he cherished each moment he could spend with his friend.

“I’d love to! I don’t think Mother and Father will be awake for another half-hour.”

Canary grinned connivingly. “Then what are we waiting for?”

After dropping a now-placid Mike by Zebro, the old-aged gatekeeper, the two travelled through a small clearing in the neighbouring woods to Canary’s abode. Grey puffs of smoke were already rising up from the flat’s brick chimney, indicating that breakfast was being made inside. Killua could feel his belly rumble with something _other_ than butterflies but quickly cleared his mind of hunger. It wouldn’t be wise to eat here and unnecessarily break more rules.

Canary let the two of them in and they settled themselves on plush settees in the butlers’ living space. Killua had always enjoyed the vibe that it carried, differing vastly from the impersonal castle salon which had musty portraits of their ancestors as its sole decoration. From upstairs, he could hear Amane, presumably, fumbling around with pots and pans. 

“It’s nice to have you visit after so long,” Canary said, to which Killua nodded earnestly. “Did you enjoy yesterday’s celebrations?”

‘Enjoy’ was a bit of an understatement to Killua. Yesterday’s celebrations had probably changed his entire perception of the outside world, where royals didn’t dare to tread and Killua was never allowed to go. The townspeople had all seemed so lively and engaging, nothing at all like the wild animals his mother had constantly compared them to. He wanted to learn more about their customs and culture, experience those things for himself. It would be impossible to escape the palace walls, however, with the strict restrictions placed on each Zoldyck and the professionally-trained personnel of guards that was always stationed outside of it. Killua had always supposed that they were there to stop outsiders from infiltrating but he started wondering whether the same applied to him and his siblings.

Ridding his mind of this unsettling realisation, he gave Canary a grin. “It was a fantastic night. It was great to see Alluka looking so pleased, after so long.” He leaned further back into his seat. “I wonder how she managed to convince Father, though. I’d never thought he would allow such a ball.”

“Maybe his Majesty has changed his views on the outside folk. It would be for the best,” she replied, lounging in a similar manner. “You could be expecting events like this more frequently in the future.”

This caught Killua’s interest. He would give anything to relive a portion of last night but he was terrified of getting his hopes up. It would be highly depressing if he started to believe Canary’s words and ended up never seeing society again. Therefore, he feigned boredom at her suggestion.

“Do you honestly believe that? I don’t think Mother would let another party like that happen under her watch.”

But Canary was no stranger to Killua’s pessimism. “I do. And I think you’d like to believe in it too,” she winked, making the prince’s face pale alarmingly.

“You—you’re right,” he sighed, hanging his head in resignation. “Everyone was so nice, Canary, and they talked with so much passion, especially him—”

“Him?” the butler interrupted, mouth quirking up in a sly smile. Killua felt his cheeks burn, silently berating himself for letting that miniscule detail slide past his lips. Well, there was nothing to deny now; he’d come too far.

He nodded. “Canary, do you know a way for me to reach Fadae village?”

She looked surprised at his sudden boldness but didn’t ask any further questions, eyeing him with a look that said ‘say no more’. “Lord Illumi will be visiting the Morow’s manor tomorrow morning, which happens to lie in the same direction as Fadae. With appropriate preparations, we could put you in the same carriage.”

“The same carriage as Illumi?! Are you joking?” he cried. Even if he curled himself up into the tiniest, most undetectable ball at the back of the carriage, there was no way Illumi wouldn’t notice him. If it had been anybody else, Killua could’ve mustered up some hope but Illumi was a whole other nightmare.

“I’m not joking, Lord Killua,” Canary said, with a devious twinkle in her eye. “And I don’t mean for you to hide or disguise yourself either. The most fool proof method would be to visit the Morows with your brother.”

Killua’s heart skipped a beat in the worst way possible. “I don’t want to visit _Hisoka_ , Canary!” he yelped, feeling repulsed at the sheer thought of entering that clown’s residence. “On no accord, will I sacrifice a perfectly nice Saturday morning to visit that madman.”

Canary laughed airily, showing no sympathy towards the prince at all. “It will only be for a short while, my Lord. An hour at most, I’d say. Afterwards, I’ll pick you up from the Morows’ and we’ll travel a brief distance to Fadae together. How does that sound?”

He considered her plan, aware of all the ways in which it could go wrong. There was a high chance of them being spotted outside the palace by a passing stranger. There was an even _higher_ chance of Illumi smelling a rat and uncovering Killua’s true intentions, especially as he’d seen the way his brother had been acting around his dance partner yesterday. But he had to admit, it was better than disguising himself as somebody else or worse, being a stowaway. Besides, he really didn’t think he’d be able to get Gon’s charming voice out of his head any time soon.

There was no time to waste.

“It’s a good plan,” he said. “The best we’ve got. The hardest part will be convincing my brother that I want to see Hisoka with him.”

Canary winced trying to imagine that conversation go down. “I hope I can leave that up to you?”

He nodded, grimly. “You definitely can. I’ll think up something for sure.” 

Their conspiratorial discussion came to an end just as Amane arrived, carrying a tray of three, steaming hot cups of tea. She gave Killua an encouraging smile when he looked nervously towards the cups, not sure whether the third was meant for him.

“It’s all yours, Lord Killua. I heard two voices from downstairs, so I supposed you’d popped over for a visit.”

Killua thanked her and gratefully took the cup into his hands. Its heat was soothing to the touch, a reminder of the warmth he’d experienced with his hand wrapped in Gon’s. A hint towards something he’d hopefully experience in the near future.

****

\----

Illumi’s daily schedule was stringent and undebatable. He’d wake up at seven o’ clock sharp, and have a maid comb his terrifyingly long, jet-black hair. Then, he’d change into his princely outfit of the day and arrive on time for breakfast, eating for approximately fifteen minutes before excusing himself in favour of reviewing his lessons. On Fridays, his lessons would go on until four in the afternoon, after which he would take to the forests and hunt.

Hunting, for Illumi, had a very different purpose. He was, and Killua hated to admit it, tremendously skilled with weaponry and could easily qualify as one of the nation’s best huntsmen. However, he had never once bragged about this talent and always strived to outdo himself with every following hunt. Other men would proudly hang the heads of their prey up on walls and brag about their game. Illumi, on the other hand, would throw the animal carcasses over to Mike as soon as he reached the palace.

Killua didn’t think he’d be able to talk to his brother before he went hunting, as he was always busy preparing. The only chance he had to discuss the visit to the Morows’ manor was in the short span of time between dinner and the moment Illumi returned.

So, he spent the entire day in wait. It turned out that his tutors _did_ have several things for him to study, which he made sure to excel in due to the fact that he’d be skipping lessons tomorrow. Whenever he managed to catch a few minutes of alone time, he’d begin to roleplay their imminent conversation under his breath. This murmuring caught the attention of his mother, who was passing by, in an instant—he had to promise her that he wasn’t going senile. A promise that he wasn’t sure he could keep, if Illumi didn’t show up soon.

At last, his time to shine arrived. A _thud_ from the palace entrance signalled that Illumi had returned from his hunt.

Killua took off as discreetly as possible along the extravagant hallway, determined to intercept his brother before the idiot reached his bedroom. Thankfully, Illumi looked to be in no rush of returning to his private quarters and was taking his time in unlacing his boots.

“Illumi,” he said in greeting as he approached the other prince. “How was your hunt?”

Lord. Illumi was already ogling him with suspicion. Was he not allowed to make small talk with his eldest brother anymore?

“It went quite well,” he replied, voice betraying no hint of the scepticism that clouded his eyes. “And how was your day?”

“Oh, you know. Wonderful. I, uhm, have a request for you.”

Now he had Illumi’s full attention. Killua never asked for anything if he could help it, least of all from his brother. He hoped that this trait of is wouldn’t make his plea less believable.

“I would like to accompany you to the Morows’ manor tomorrow.”

Illumi’s reaction was full of an emotion that Killua had never seen on him before. Was it…alarm? Why was he so distressed at the mere thought of his younger brother visiting his friend? It was a new experience for Killua to see Illumi in such pain, and he lived for it. Then again, the more alarmed Illumi got, the less likely Killua’s escape to Fadae would be. He immediately tried to resolve the situation.

“It would only be for an hour,” he began. If Illumi showed clear signs of not wanting him there, then he’d play into it. It’s not as if Killua was dying to meet Hisoka. “I have a literature class to attend at nine-thirty, anyway. All I wish to do is introduce myself!”

“And why would you want to do that?” Illumi shot back, tone even and still. “You’ve known the Morow family for your entire life. Despite that, you’ve never risen to the occasion of getting to know them. Why are you so eager now?”

Killua chuckled at his question, as if he knew exactly how to respond. Internally, he was cursing himself for ever having brought the subject of escape up to Canary.

“I’ve only recently turned eighteen, Illumi,” he spoke slowly. “And as I’m an adult now, I need to see to it that the Zoldycks maintain good relationships with all of our connections. And what better way than to start with your…friend?”

Personally, he could think of a thousand better ways. However, Illumi looked quite convinced with this argument albeit no less dubious than before. “I suppose you have a point. It would be pleasing, however,” he locked his gaze onto Killua, “if you could show the same energy with other nobles in the future.”

“Ugh. I mean, yes. Meeting them would be nice. Thanks, Illumi,” he grinned uneasily, looking to make a getaway before he tripped over his words any further. It had been a success! The hardest part of the plan had been dealt with—now all Killua could envision were honey-coloured eyes and a sightseeing trip in Fadae village.

****

\----

Saturday morning arrived cold and bitter, as if the sky too was not looking forward to being reminded of Hisoka’s existence. Dry, decaying leaves glided past Killua’s open window, lost in the strong winter breeze. The prince wished for nothing but a few hours’ more rest, but being tardy for an appointment with a noble family had dreadful ramifications. With a discontented groan, he shrugged his duvet off and prepared for the day.

Midway through getting dressed, it dawned on him that he would be meeting Gon today. He would be meeting Gon in a village that would know in an _instant_ that Killua was the prince, unlike the spiky-haired islander. It would not be fit to wear such regal outfits to Fadae—Killua didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t as if he had any casual, village-friendly outfits in his closet. Somehow, he would have to intercept Canary and ask her for some spare daywear. The question was _how_?

A loud yelp from downstairs let him know that breakfast had begun and Alluka had probably pranked Milluki in some way. He smiled to himself, making his way out of his wing and into the vast dining room before he could be reprimanded. 

_I’ll just leave with a massive coat,_ thought Killua, in order to appease the knot in his stomach. _It shouldn’t be suspicious—it’s freezing out there, anyways._

Breakfast, thankfully, was a short affair. His mother and father said that they had important business to attend to in the South tower, the most heavily guarded region of the palace, where the kingdom’s treasures were enclosed. Milluki, humiliated by the unmentioned prank that Alluka had played, seemed too depressed to eat. After merely twenty minutes, the Zoldycks nodded at each other in a curt ‘goodbye’ (save for Alluka, who waved cheerfully at Killua), and Killua was off to a pristine carriage parked before the entrance of the castle.

Illumi was silent beside him, gaze hovering unfocusedly over the well-groomed carriage horses. It was rare to see his brother lost in his own thoughts like this, coal-black hair billowing in the wind behind him. Killua wondered what he was thinking about.

He didn’t care enough to ask, however: his mind was stuck on the adventure that lay ahead of him. The plan that had a billion-and-one chances of falling through, which Killua had stressed over so thoroughly the night before that he’d almost cancelled it altogether. Annoyingly, his excitement was on par with his anxiety, the two engaging in an evenly-matched battle that resulted in nothing but more adrenaline being pumped into Killua’s system.

The princes boarded the carriage without speaking. Once they’d gotten properly adjusted and Killua had shed his massive overcoat, the chauffeur nodded to them and swung the reins, beckoning for the horses to start the ride.

By carriage, the journey to the Morow manor didn’t take too long but it gave Killua enough time to observe the surrounding nature. Padokea was often labelled as a harsh landscape that comprised barely any biodiversity. Tourists, who knew full well that they hadn’t travelled here to gain an appreciation for Mother Earth, complained about the unforgiving terrain and the gloomy atmosphere. To some extent, Killua agreed. The flora and fauna weren’t traditionally pretty and were mostly of the stinging variety. Even so, he couldn’t help but admire the rough patches of frost-covered snapdragons that lay on their path. Something about their vibrance amidst the grim backdrop appealed to Killua and he found himself wanting to pick a few for Gon. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, right?

He didn’t bother asking for Illumi’s opinion. Shifting closer to the front of the carriage, he raised his voice: “Sir, could we stop here for a short minute? I want to get a closer look at these flowers.”

His brother shot him a stern look. “Whatever would you need those for?” he inquired, as the carriage came to a halt.

Killua was already halfway out the door. “I’d like to examine them during Science!”

He’d grown quite accustomed to lying in his family’s faces.

True to his word, Killua re-entered his ride a minute later with a colourful bunch of snapdragons in his hand. There wasn’t any time to arrange them in the form of a bouquet, so he hurriedly stuffed them into his coat pocket, internally praying that he wouldn’t have to tell any further fibs. Illumi’s stare was becoming more pronounced by the minute.

The carriage trip came to an end shortly after the Morow manor came into sight. Its many towers and oddly-shaped topiaries loomed above the two princes as they disembarked the carriage, shrouding them in an uncomfortable aura. Killua had visited this place once or twice before, but today it seemed more hellish than it ever had. Perhaps that was because this time, his only company was Illumi. He wasn’t exactly the comforting type.

They approached the front entrance together: Killua with trepidation and Illumi with indifference. The chauffeur scurried a few paces ahead of them with the aim of getting the door for the princes. Just before he could place his gloved hands on its handle, however, it flung open on its own, revealing a tall, white-faced man standing proudly in the centre.

“So nice to see you, Illumi,” Hisoka drawled in welcome, slinking over to where the eldest prince was stood. He tried to go in for a hug which failed as Illumi took a quick step to the side. Killua bit back a laugh as he watched the man regain his balance.

The amusement on the prince’s face was what led to Hisoka noticing his presence for the first time.

“Oh my,” he said, turning to the white-haired boy. “Who do we have here? Surely not your brother, Illumi?”

“He wished to pay a visit,” Illumi replied, slipping into a chair that was set close to the entrance so as to take off his boots. He waved away the chauffeur, who was still planted to the ground in bewilderment. The man made for his carriage in haste.

“A visit? To _me_?” Hisoka put a hand over his heart, theatrically. “How kind of you, Prince Killua. Please, allow me to escort you inside.”

Killua reared back in alarm. He did _not_ want those knife-sharp, magenta nails escorting him anywhere. “I’ll be fine by myself, thank you.”

Their host’s face stretched into a Cheshire cat-like grin, eyes crinkling with something dangerous sparkling within them.

“Such lovely manners. Go on then, take a seat in the salon. Your delightful brother knows the way.”

Wondering why he had subjected himself to the torture of visiting somebody that called Illumi ‘delightful’, Killua followed the delightful one over to the Morow Salon. He was taken aback by the décor the moment he stepped foot into the room. It had vastly changed since the last time he’d been here; playing cards of varying sizes were pasted over a blank white wall, with a massive Joker card claiming a spot above the fireplace. Was this what they called modern art?

Killua sat himself on a plush red couch, nearest to an ancient grandfather clock. It gave him a nice view outside the window, next to which a deep brown harpsichord was stationed. He took it in with interest. He’d never learned how to play an instrument much to his disdain. Like Illumi, he’d opted more for dance at a young age. He knew that Alluka and Kalluto received flute lessons, though, and was glad that they were taking that opportunity.

Hisoka shimmied into the room with a chamberlain, carrying a tray laden with pink sweets, following closely behind. He plucked one from the heap and held it up to Killua’s nose. 

“Would you like to try one of these, my Lord?” he said, rolling it between his fingers like a marble. “It's called a ‘Bungee Gum’. Specially imported from…here. I made it.” He gave Killua a smile as if he expected the prince to congratulate him on his candy invention. The fact that it was Hisoka’s own creation was the _most_ off-putting attribute.

“Maybe later,” he grimaced, trying for a smile. When it didn’t appear, Hisoka shrugged and took the seat adjacent to Illumi, crossing his legs.

Much of their chatter from then on included topics that Killua didn’t care for: an upcoming international sports contest, fine-dining, and strangely enough, fishing. He was surprised that Illumi gave a damn. His brother wasn’t really one to bother himself with such things—just how much did he like Hisoka? Or maybe they all bore a similarity to hunting, Illumi’s only publicly known interest. Heck if Killua knew.

With a wonderful fire blazing in the grate, Killua was all set to doze off on the sofa. It took an extraordinary amount of willpower to stop himself from taking a nap. He had to keep reminding himself that he was alone with the least trustworthy people in his life, _and_ that he had a date in Fadae village to get to. 

Wait. A date?

Would Gon see it as a date? Shit, Gon didn’t even know he was _coming_. Here Killua was, planning to pop up in front of Selasi’s bakery with a bunch of tangled snapdragons in his hand and expecting Gon to just…accept it? Walk to the ends of the Earth with him? There was no guarantee that his ballroom dance partner would even be in town. He was in no way obliged to stay where Killua could find him. Fuck…he hadn’t thought this out at all.

In all his internal panic, his eyes had latched on to the harpsichord beside the window. The air was quiet now, Killua realised. With a nasty jolt, he noticed Hisoka smirking at him. That was never a good sign.

“Do you know how to play the harpsichord?”

That’s what he wanted to ask? Killua shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I don’t.”

The man’s eyes shone at his admission. “Oh, then I’ll gladly play a piece or two for you.” He sauntered over to the old-looking instrument and placed himself atop the cushioned stool before it. Illumi looked on keenly.

“Here’s a piece that’s originally from Kakin,” he introduced, wiggling his fingers over the keys. “It’s called ‘Pins and Needles’.”

The piece had a fun, lilting melody that was the type to stay in Killua’s head for weeks. It was cheerful and completely transformed the salon’s atmosphere to one of joy and jubilation. Even Illumi, who was usually unaffected by any sort of tune, seemed to be enjoying Hisoka’s playing (although it wasn’t clear to Killua whether he was nodding along to the piece or the musician). Begrudgingly, the prince decided that Hisoka was a very decent player. 

The unexpected recital put Killua in a good mood, and when Hisoka’s fingers stilled above the wooden keys, he even felt compelled to give his host a small smile. 

“That was lovely,” he said, sneaking a look at the nearby grandfather clock. He had two minutes to go. Clearly, Illumi had noticed this too, as he was looking at his brother very pointedly. “Really, you’re a…talented player. But I’m afraid I must leave for a literature lesson now, Sir Morow.”

“You’re leaving already?” Hisoka questioned in the most unsurprised tone Killua had ever heard. “What a shame. Oh, and please call me Hisoka! Or you’re free to call me what your brother calls me—”

“Yes, Killua, you should really get going,” Illumi interrupted, and was that a _blush_ Killua was seeing blossom over his brother’s cheeks? No, it couldn’t be. It had to be a rash.

With a final goodbye and bow of the head, the prince departed from the salon towards the entrance. He wiped away a bead of sweat that had developed above his brow over the past hour. He’d really done it. Unless his brother was in direct correspondence with God, he wouldn’t be likely to know about the ‘literature class’ that Killua was headed to. As long as he made it to Fadae village without being discovered, he would get to hear that happy laugh, feel those warm, careful hands in his once more.

Giddy with optimism, Killua exited the manor to the grey world outside. From this distance, the frost covering the clipped hedges looked a lot like fairy dust to him.

He spied Canary a few metres away, amicably conversing with the chauffeur. She was clad in a dark, satin cloak which fitted her cosily, protecting her from the brunt of the cold. The moment he caught her eye, her face split into a wide smile, beckoning him away from the manor and towards the direction of the subject of his affections.

He grinned back, throwing on his bulky overcoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAA sorry for the lack of gon in this chapter i miss my son so much  
> i also apologise for any grammar mistakes or misspellings. i am passing away


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As they approached the stand, he saw Killua’s eyes light up in curiosity, crinkling happily once he registered Basha’s greeting. He watched eagerly as she sifted the brown delicacies until they were warm with their yellow interiors on display._
> 
> _“Got a friend with you today, Gon?” she chirped._
> 
> _He nodded, eyes on Killua’s cloaked back. “Mmhm. His name’s Chris! He’s from Saherta.”_
> 
> _Killua blanched, shooting him an angry look. Gon pretended not to notice, barrelling on in his creation of a fake identity. “He has a pet tiger! It’s pure white and licks his feet every morning to warm him up. Did you know the United States of Saherta has tigers, Basha?”_
> 
> Gon isn't all that skilled at creating fake aliases.

The village of Fadae had long ago come to the unanimous decision of starting their day at dawn. It wasn’t so much obedience to law as it was out of necessity—delaying their morning chores would only result in fewer working hours and consequently, less income. And in a land which was as unforgiving as the royal family that ruled over it, somebody with no money was as good as dead. The people, therefore, had adapted to their harsh lifestyles and accepted that the Zoldycks were as useful to them as mould was in a bakery.

Gon Freecss had never imagined that the cruelty of the aristocracy would be responsible for his early rising. Back on Whale Island, waking at dawn had been somewhat of a novelty. Watching the deep blues and purples of the retreating night merge with soft oranges and pinks made Gon feel like he’d entered heaven. The quiet of the morning was an added bonus; his aunt Mito and great-grandmother weren’t seen around the house until seven o'clock, preferring to cherish the last of their sleep.

Gon would often think of his father while taking in the sunrise. Was Ging awake in some part of the world, admiring the colours of the sky alongside his son? _It’ll be a different time of the day, wherever he is,_ Gon constantly reminded himself. _He won’t be able to see it at the same time as me_. He knew that it was true, that it was a simple geographical fact, but he couldn’t help feeling a smidge of disappointment all the same. Disappointment which would morph into sudden anger and then…tiredness. He was tired of thinking about a father whose face he couldn’t recall.

Aunt Mito refused to talk about him. Great-grandmother, bless her heart, couldn’t remember much about him. He’d left so long ago, after all. A scrappy handwritten note was the only evidence that he’d ever been there at all. 

_‘Come and find me if you’re ever in need’_ , it said. Aunt Mito had burned it atop the stove seconds after discovering it while muttering poisonous death threats (“as _if_ we’ll ever need him!”), but the message stuck. It travelled with the island’s tropical air currents, it drifted along with the soap suds in the kitchen sink, and in the last months before Gon’s departure, it had practically lived inside him.

 _‘Come and find me’_ when he inhaled. _‘If you’re ever in need’_ when he exhaled.

Mito was against it. Great-grandmother wasn’t in the state to form an opinion. Gon was, if he had to be honest, terrified of meeting the man as much as he dreamed of it. But the fact of the matter was that they _were_ in need. A whole lot of it, actually. Jobs were disappearing on Whale Island as fewer and fewer merchants decided to conduct business there. Mito had trouble managing her extra jobs and the household work. Great-grandmother’s health was steadily declining, and however hard Gon tried to support his family, they simply hadn’t the money to go on.

_Come and find me._

So Gon had decided that he bloody well would. He would find Ging and demand that he return home to aunt Mito and great-grandmother, and do something for the people he’d so carelessly left behind. He would force him to apologise to the woman whose life he’d ruined by subjecting her to motherhood when she was barely in her teens. Gon didn’t particularly think of himself as ‘ruinous’ but he had to hold his father accountable for his irresponsibility.

He’d said all of this to aunt Mito, who had become so despondent at the prospect of him leaving, she’d locked herself in her bedroom for an entire afternoon. Gon had had to convince her with sweeter words after that, until she begrudgingly agreed to let him go and claim their fortune from his deadbeat dad.

And here he was, apprenticing under a baker in the republic of Padokea, two months into his not-so-grand journey. He’d been hopping around from country to country for the last eight weeks, dissecting each location to his fullest ability. He knew jack-all about his father — he could be in any hotel room, any forest, any cave. He could be dead for all Gon knew, but he hated to think pessimistically.

Fadae village had seemed cosy enough upon his initial arrival, and he’d decided to linger there for a while. Travelling was becoming exhausting and he knew that he needed a break. Not exactly a vacation; he couldn’t hope to live both comfortably _and_ pennilessly. He needed a source of income for sure.

Fortunately, it hadn’t been difficult to get Selasi to hire him. The man was moustached, in his early fifties, and easy-going. After taking a quick look at Gon’s weary frame and fiery eyes, he’d beckoned him towards the confines of the bakery and up the stepladder to the shop’s living quarters.

There, he’d met Zushi, a seventeen-year old who unlike Gon, was native to the area. His mother, who lived two streets away, wished to cure him of his slovenliness and begged Selasi to ‘kick a bit of organisation into the lad’. It seemed to Gon that the baker had achieved this to a degree of excellence: the Zushi he knew was as clean and tidy as they came. His neatly cropped brown hair put Gon’s unruly spikes to shame.

It was as he arranged these spikes into a less offensive fashion, that Zushi entered their shared bedroom with a white apron tied around his waist.

“Oh, you’re up,” he said, making a move to grab the copper kettle that sat on the floor between their beds. “You’d better go down soon, Selasi’s planning to get us started on a new cake recipe today and he wants to tell you all about it.”

Throwing a quick glance at the mirror to admire the way he’d managed to settle his hair down into a fringe, he smiled at Zushi and made his way out of the room. He could already smell the aroma of the pumpkin bread that this bakery was famous for, and rightfully so—each loaf tasted like autumn and afternoon naps. The latter of which Gon _definitely_ thought he needed, as he rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes.

Selasi was sat cross-legged by the hearth, scrawling something onto yellowed parchment. His handwriting was curly but clearly legible — a far cry from Ging’s long-burned chicken-scratch. The baker gave Gon a kindly smile as he noticed his presence and waved him over to sit beside him.

“I hope you got enough sleep, boy,” he said, staring unimpressed at the eye that Gon had rubbed a bit too hard: it was red. “I want you and Zushi to start with chiffon cakes today. They’re not incredibly difficult but it’ll be a challenge all the same. The recipe uses vegetable oil instead of solid fat, see,” he pointed to the page, “and we’re all out of that. You’ll have to explore the market a bit and buy some more.”

Gon nodded, blinking lazily. He was happy to do pretty much anything Selasi asked of him. The man was a good boss and paid him a decent amount, as well as assuring that he received homely lodgings. But did he _have_ to run errands to early in the day? The effect of the royal ball two nights ago still hadn’t worn off. Regardless of how much he’d enjoyed it, the celebration had taken a toll on him that left him weary and longing for some rest.

Selasi seemed to understand this and took pity on him. “You can fetch the ingredients later, if you want. I need somebody to man the counter ‘til then.”

This was a much more pleasant idea. He could deal with customers. Most of their daily clientele had grown to like him and the enthusiasm with which he worked. Gon had even learned a few new names: there was Wing — Zushi’s old professor — and Leorio, a loud, friendly doctor. They were a nice bunch and always stopped for a word or two whenever Gon ran into them outside.

The morning passed without too much hazard. Admittedly, Gon _did_ somehow tip half a bag of flour over his immaculately-made hair, but that wasn’t anything life-destructing. Or so he hoped, as he made valiant attempts at removing the powder from his already sore eyes. If he went blind after this, he’d never forgive himself.

As the clock struck ten, he was called upon to put a stack of empty milk bottles in front of the shop, for the milkman to collect. Balancing the little shits was a job in itself. The glass seemed repulsed by his grip and shied away from his hands. The lack of friction made it impossible to carry all six of them by hand, and for this reason, he resorted to stuffing two under each armpit and one under his chin. He looked like an absolute idiot, a fact that was made apparent by Zushi, who cackled at his posture and told him to take the bottles out in turns. Gon berated himself for not having thought of that earlier, but it was too late to turn back now — he was almost out of the door. Just a step through the threshold and—

 _Thud_. He found himself lying face-first on the rough ground of the entrance. His nose throbbed in despair: it had hit the floor first and was currently being tickled by coarse grasses. He felt the urge to sneeze. How clumsy could he be? Selasi trusted him to behave like a functioning human, _not_ someone who tripped over the damn threshold! The bottles were probably damaged too.

A low groan prevented Gon from continuing his self-slander. Had he bumped into somebody on his way out? He turned his head to the side and was met with a shocking mop of snow-white hair.

“That hurt,” Killua whimpered, rubbing his shoulder. Or, at least the stranger _looked_ like Killua. Gon couldn’t be too sure after taking a fall like that. The boy had Killua’s eyes and face and voice, but why would the prince be outside a Fadaean bakery on a freezing winter’s morning? 

The Killua look-alike caught onto Gon’s stare. They regarded each other for a few seconds, unsure. Then the boy hesitantly whispered, “Gon?”

The question broke Gon out of his stupor. “Me.”

“You,” Killua smiled before moving his gaze further down. “Why do you have a bottle under your chin?”

Gon freed the bottle from his uncomfortable grasp and checked it for cracks and fissures. It thankfully seemed unharmed; he wasn’t a total failure of an apprentice yet.

“I was taking the milk bottles out,” he hummed as Killua pulled himself up and hid his hair under a black hood. “Wait. Why are you here?”

He hadn’t meant for his tone to be accusatory but the prince paled all the same. He seemed to fidget, shifting from foot to foot, as if he wasn’t sure which one to put his weight on.

“Well, I promised to visit you, remember?” he said uneasily. “At the ball. You, er, said you could be found at Selasi’s bakery…” 

The words sounded foreign, coming from him. He said ‘bakery’ as if the mere concept was mythical—his mouth focused on the first syllable for too long. Of course, reasoned Gon, he wouldn’t have much use for the word. The palace would have its own team of professional bakers… _they_ wouldn’t have to run through the chaotic marketplace in search of vegetable oil.

“If you’re busy, I can leave. Sorry for bumping into you like that, I’ll make sure to not repeat such an action.” He was slipping into a posher way of speaking, wringing his hands. _He’s nervous_ , Gon realised belatedly. As much his arrival had shocked him, he didn’t want Killua to leave. The prince had been plaguing his mind non-stop ever since the ball, which Gon had hated. He hadn’t been sure if he would see him again. But now, Killua was here; he couldn’t just leave.

“No! You should stay!” Gon all but yelled, springing up from the floor. He clasped his hands around Killua’s as an impulse more than anything else. “I’d love it if you did.”

All of Killua’s anxious energy seemed to dissipate at once. His icy hands relaxed under Gon’s own as he took in his appearance.

“Is that flour on your head?” he laughed, examining Gon’s poor hair. He flicked a bit of it off with his finger.

“It was an accident!”

“An accident, huh?” Killua repeated, and was that a smirk? Gon’s request for him to stay seemed to have done a number on the prince. His confidence was other-worldly. “And was this hairstyle an accident too? I almost didn’t recognise you.”

Gon pouted. “I can’t have it in spikes everyday, Killua. The customers would be scared off.”

“Mmm, I’m sure.” He raked a hand through Gon’s pitiful black strands until they were a tad bit more gravity-defying again. The feeling of Killua’s delicate fingers toying with his hair made him shiver. He tried to play it off as a result of the weather.

“We should head inside,” Gon suggested. “It’s freezing out here.”

Killua’s fingers paused, hand resting atop Gon’s scalp. “Will your boss be inside?”

“Probably,” he shrugged. “I don’t think he left. Come on!” 

Latching onto his wrist, he dragged Killua into the sheltered warmth that the bakery provided. There was a fire roaring in the grate which the pair were grateful for. Zushi had disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two alone to embrace the heat side-by-side. Despite the abruptness of the situation, Gon found himself thinking that he could get used to this.

The moment he glimpsed the empty baking trays lying haphazardly by the fire, the wishful thinking died. He had so much work to do…how would Killua fare being left in silence for the rest of the day? Surely, he wouldn’t like it; he was a prince, after all, and was definitely used to attention.

“You have things to do, don’t you?” Killua spoke, not unpleasantly. Gon nodded in confirmation, pondering what Killua would do in this duration. He hoped that Selasi would let him stay, at the very least. It was a long way back to the palace.

The baker in question strode in through the doorway as if summoned. He eyed the boys by the fire, eyebrows rising at the sight of the newcomer. Killua appeared to shrink behind Gon, tucking more of his voluminous hair into his satin hood. 

“Who do we have here?” Selasi asked, gesturing for the pair to stand up. Apparently, he hadn’t recognised Killua. “I haven’t seen you around this area before.”

The prince took in a sharp breath. “That would be because I’m not from here. I was taken in as an apprentice at Camille’s Flower Boutique just a few weeks ago — I’ve been busy working ever since.”

He said it so naturally that only somebody with preconceived suspicion wouldn’t be convinced. Gon turned towards him, surprised. Did they teach princes how to professionally lie at castle-school?

“You work at Camille’s, do you? I do remember her going on about how she needed a bit more help ‘round the shop,” Selasi grunted. “How come you’re not at the shop now?”

“She’s given me a day off. I’ve hardly had any breaks since she took me in.” Gon marvelled at how easily the words slipped out of Killua’s mouth. It was impossible to discern that he was lying — his expression stayed composed and unwavering. 

Selasi peered at him for a few scary seconds and then broke into a smile. “That’s alright then. Unfortunately, I can’t show Gon over here the same kindness. I think your time to head to the market has come, lad.”

Suddenly, the thought of scavenging Fadae’s many stalls for oil didn’t seem so daunting. If he had Killua with him, the chore could turn out to be somewhat _fun_. Gon recalled the uncertain way in which the prince had said ‘bakery’ and came to the conclusion that he absolutely had to give this boy a tour of the village. He beamed at Selasi.

“Of course! Uh, could I bring Ki — Chris along? If that’s okay?” he squeaked, trying his best to ignore the not-so-subtle death glare that Killua was sending his way.

“Your name’s Chris?” Selasi asked, and Killua tried for a winning smile.

“Chris. Yes, that’s. Me.” All of his previous finesse had evaporated.

Selasi quirked an eyebrow. It made Gon start to sweat.

“I have no problem with you both going together. Make sure to be back in time, though. Those chiffon cakes aren’t gonna bake themselves,” the baker finally said, turning on his heel and busying himself with something or the other. Gon recognised dismissals all too well ( _“Get out of our damn hotel! Your daddy isn’t here.”_ ) and he was more than happy to oblige in this case.

The pair made their way back out into the frosty open. Killua released a flustered breath, its white wisps visible in the cold air. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and looked at Gon.

“Chris? Really?”

Gon huffed an embarrassed laugh. “What? You showed up out of nowhere, I wasn’t at all prepared to create a whole new identity for you.”

This comment seemed to silence Killua, who instantly turned away and quickened his pace. He led the two in the direction of the Fadaean market, walking briskly with his head tilted downwards. The suggestion that Gon had been about to make — to show the prince the perks of the village — died on his lips. Judging by the way Killua was determinedly avoiding his gaze, he probably wouldn’t jump at the offer. The uncomfortable quiet pressed on Gon’s back as he rushed to catch up with the prince, feeling suddenly humiliated and presumptuous. This was Killua’s own village, wasn’t it? Who was he, a foreigner to Padokea, to suggest giving him a tour of his own land? 

Neither of the two uttered a word as they reached the busiest street in the town. Colourfully decked stalls with overhead canopies, to protect their vendors from the occasional pelting of rain, lined the roadside. The noise of sellers and merchants at work filled the air. Modestly-dressed men and women shouted inviting phrases into the ears of whoever was closest to their shop. Cries of “Best apples in Padokea! Freshest fruit in the village!” and “Stylish scarves! Buy one and the King will invite you to his next ball!” were interspersed with quieter sounds of money being exchanged, business being conducted. The air smelled vaguely tangy with an underlying hint of spice.

Killua had stopped stock still. Wide-eyed, he drank in the view, gaze moving rapidly from stall to stall. Gon knew how he felt: in his first week here, he’d been overwhelmed by the market and all its over-stimulating aspects. Whale Island’s daily market had always had a sense of tranquillity about it in contrast to the chaos of Fadae. Ordered chaos, Gon liked to call it, having adjusted to the brazenness of the village.

Gon wasn’t sure why, but it warmed him to see the prince so speechless at the sight of something other people found trivial. He could tell that Killua liked what he was seeing, if his wondrous smile was anything to go by. He’d been in his element at the ball but now he was in Gon’s sort-of-newish one, and he was glad that he appreciated it.

Until Killua whipped his head around, saw Gon, and deflated. His face fell back into that brooding look and Gon spontaneously decided that this behaviour was _not_ on. What had he done to offend the boy? Surely, the name ‘Chris’ wasn’t a mortal insult to him?

“Killua, what’s wrong?”

The prince looked to the floor. His posture was slumped, providing a heavy contrast to the air of regality with which he had carried himself two nights ago. 

“I just…I’m aware that my visit caught you by surprise and I’d like to apologise for it.” That unmistakeable upper-class accent had woven its way back into his words. “I’m likely burdening you. You don’t have to pretend you enjoy it because I’m the prince. So, er, I’d better get going.”

Gon stared. Why would Killua have such doubts? Had his previously expressed want for Killua’s company meant nothing to the boy? Did he really believe that all of Gon’s enthusiasm stemmed from the fact that he was a prince?

When he voiced the last question, Killua replied with a bewildered look.

“Well, yes,” he said, shoulders tight with tension. “You’re doing it out of courtesy. I respect that you’re making the effort, but you really don’t have to. I’m clearly imposing on you with my presence.”

“What does that even mean?” Gon sputtered. “Trust me, I’m happy you’re here. Why else would I have invited you into the bakery?”

Killua rolled his eyes. “That’s what you do with any guest. _Especially_ with one from a royal family.”

“Not like I would know,” he muttered. “Never had many guests over. I hope you now know that I _do_ want you around, though! Whether you’re a prince or not.”

“Oh.” Killua’s face began to clear albeit slowly. “You’re sure?”

“A hundred percent. Or would you like special attention, your Highness?” Gon spoke obsequiously, his feigned fawning only ruined by the shit-eating grin he wore.

“Oh, shut up,” Killua huffed, failing to hide his own smile, and suddenly the market seemed ten times more vibrant. He played into the servant-master act, poking his nose into the air and sniffing in disdain. “Take me to your finest wares, peasant.”

“Certainly, my Lord,” said the peasant, gripping the prince’s forearm. “Padokea’s most delicious chestnuts lie twenty meters yonder!”

“Chestnuts? An excellent idea, you village scoundrel. Lead the way.”

Gon snickered, guiding Killua to the aforementioned chestnut stand. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d proclaimed them to be Padokea’s best — sure, he wasn’t qualified enough to talk about Padokean cuisine but Fadae’s roasted chestnuts were _good_. It helped that the silver-haired woman, Basha, who sold them was friendly and always spared Gon a kindly smile. Aunt Mito would’ve liked her and her food. Perhaps he could parcel off a box of chestnuts to her before he left the town. 

As they approached the stand, he saw Killua’s eyes light up in curiosity, crinkling happily once he registered Basha’s greeting. He watched eagerly as she sifted the brown delicacies until they were warm with their yellow interiors on display.

“Got a friend with you today, Gon?” she chirped.

He nodded, eyes on Killua’s cloaked back. “Mmhm. His name’s Chris! He’s from Saherta.”

Killua blanched, shooting him an angry look. Gon pretended not to notice, barrelling on in his creation of a fake identity. “He has a pet tiger! It’s pure white and licks his feet every morning to warm him up. Did you know the United States of Saherta has tigers, Basha?”

“My, you’re talkative today, aren’t you?” was all she responded with. Gon supposed this was a relief; he had no idea whether the United States of Saherta had tigers and could not provide any further context. “Here you are. One for you and one for Chris.”

‘Chris’ thanked her and took his share as Gon paid the appropriate money for the both of them. When they were a safe distance away, he received a good kick to the shins.

“You idiot! White tigers are native to Ochima. Anyone who has them in Saherta would be arrested for animal smuggling,” said Killua. “You’re going to get me thrown into prison if you keep going on like that.”

Gon raised his eyebrows. That’s what he was most concerned about? “You’re not denying the fact that you could have one. And I’ll bet it licks your feet too.”

“Any living specimen in the vicinity of my bare feet would instantly die,” Killua retorted, shovelling a handful of chestnuts into his mouth. “And I refuse to be a murderer. God, these are delicious.”

His appreciation warmed Gon in a way that the chestnuts couldn’t. He’d been afraid that Killua would dislike the village’s food after having developed a lavish taste courtesy of his upbringing. The look of delight on the prince’s face, however, quelled that fear at once.

“Right?” he exclaimed, munching on his own snack. “Nobody does them like Basha. And aren’t your feet meant to smell like roses? You’re quickly ruining my image of royalty, you know.”

“It shouldn’t be surprising. I do around twenty hours of dancing per week — my feet are bound to smell like…like dung.”

“Dung?” Gon bit back a laugh. “You mean crap? Or God forbid: shit?”

“Shit,” Killua tried earnestly. His face contorted in revulsion. “Bleh. It sounds weird when I say it. If Illumi heard me, he’d never let me return to the palace.”

“Illumi?”

“My brother,” he answered. “The one with long black hair. You must have seen him at the ball the other night.”

Gon cocked his head to the side, trying to put a face to the name. He remembered a tall, pale man with a fiercely dominating presence slow-dancing next to them near to the end of the ball. He hadn’t paid him much attention but he’d looked all prim and proper — nothing like the fun, charismatic prince that Gon had danced with.

“Oh, him! Yeah, he looked like he had a permanent stick up his ass.”

Laughing, Killua replied, “Is that really an expression people use? Stick up—” His sentence was left unfinished as he dissolved into cackles of mirth, soft hair spilling from the confines of his hood. It left Gon with the overwhelming urge to yell another expletive just to fuel that bubbly giggle. He immediately thought better of it, recalling the gentle scolding he would receive whenever he swore in Aunt Mito’s presence, but he enjoyed watching Killua laugh. It was airy and bright and soothed something within Gon, although he couldn’t quite pin down what that ‘something’ was.

After a few minutes of post-laughter milling around, enjoying the rush of the market, Gon decided to prod at a subject he’d been curious about for a good part of the day. “So, your family doesn’t know you’re here?”

Killua shook his head, eyeing a nearby chocolate stall longingly. “They’d rather leave me to die than let me go galivanting off on my own. According to my mother, ‘the common world is beneath me’ or whatever it is that she keeps spewing.”

This felt not only insulting but unwise to Gon, who voiced that complaint. “How are you going to be an effective ruler if you don’t interact with the people you’re ruling?”

“It’s not so much ruling than it is following an age-old tradition,” responded Killua. “The Zoldycks haven’t properly _ruled_ in over a century. We’re obviously taught the laws and are trained in combat and jurisdiction, but we hardly ever implement any of it. All of that is the responsibility of the Royal Guard.” A dark look passed over his face at the mention of, essentially, the Kukuroo kingdom’s police force.

Gon, too, didn’t have much love to spare for guards, officers, sentinel or whatever one decided to call them. They were all the same in each land. Bone-headed pricks who abused the power they’d been given to swell their egos. In these two months he’d been away from Whale Island, he’d come face to face with the exploitation that terrorised people like him. Commoners, typical civilians trying to live their lives. He’d been kicked by them, received agonising bruises for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For asking about his father. Really, it was a wonder how many dirty looks a harmless question like “Would you happen to know anyone called Ging Freecss?” could get you.

He wondered what reasons Killua would have to dislike them, though. They _worked_ for him. They were meant to be respectful and obedient or they’d end up without a job. He couldn’t understand the boy’s hostility.

“Respectful and obedient?” the prince spat when asked. “Sure, they’re respectful. To our faces, to our parents. But,” his hands momentarily shook, unable to internalise his anger, “I’ve seen what they call my sister behind her back. The way they leer at her and Kalluto, talk about what — what they’ll _do_ with them…”

Gon felt sick to his stomach. How _dare_ they? How could they insinuate such vile things about children, about the royal fucking family? He’d glimpsed Princess Alluka a few times throughout the ball, an adorable girl in a stunning pink dress, and hadn’t given her much thought back then. Currently, however, he felt a strong surge of protectiveness over her, regardless of the fact that she didn’t know his name.

He looked at Killua, who was now visibly trembling in all his unreleased rage. Gon sympathised; he wasn’t a stranger to anger and knew a firm grip from aunt Mito always helped him to calm down. He tried this strategy with the prince, placing a cool hand on his shoulder to ground him. Killua flinched and made a fleeting attempt to retreat but eventually simmered down.

“They’re filthy pieces of shit,” Gon said. “Disgusting cockroaches. Wait, that’s an insult to cockroaches! I’m so, so sorry.” He groveled his apologised to all cockroaches of the world, pretending to not be pleased by the way Killua snorted and discreetly leaned into Gon’s touch at his shoulder.

Belatedly and somehow also at the correct time, Gon realised that he was happy. Happy in a way that he wouldn’t have expected, given his impromptu royal company or the icy weather or the morning shoppers’ madness. It wasn’t elation or joy or anything so extreme either — just a deep comforting feeling that warmed him to the tips of his toes. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever talked to someone in such an easy-going way besides his own family. It made him happy to know that he wasn’t some ignorant, unsociable fool who was only capable of talking to old women. He _wasn’t_ an outcast, something the people on his travels had always referred to him as.

Or maybe, he thought with a grin, they were both outcasts. Killua and him. An out-of-touch prince and a fatherless rascal: what a duo.

Killua caught him in the act of contemplation and gave him a nudge. “What are you thinking about, plebeian.”

His eyes glinted playfully. _Pretty_ , Gon thought before he could help himself.

“That vegetable oil we’re meant to buy,” he grinned. “Come on! Or does his Highness need help walking?”

Killua rolled his eyes but rushed to quicken his pace, claiming to be on the lookout for oil, although Gon definitely saw him focus on a spiced tea stall longer than ‘mildly-interested’ people were deemed to do. He sighed, guiding Killua towards the handsomely-decorated stall, and abruptly noted that he hadn’t once let go of the prince’s shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Two S's?" he clamoured when the boy spelled it out for him. "Whatever do you need the second one for?"_
> 
> _"I have no idea," Gon said, pressing his elbows down onto the wooden work-table behind him. "I've never thought of it. Maybe my dad changed it to stand out."_
> 
> _"Oh, I see!" The prince began to nod excitedly, as if he'd been made aware of every truth of the known universe. "You're not just any Freecss. You're a Freecssssss."_
> 
> Gon and Killua try their hands at baking. Well, Gon tries it. Killua offers moral support.

Baking was a lot harder than Gon had ever given it credit for.

He couldn’t understand why. All it involved was weighing and measuring, sifting and stirring, and lastly, waiting. None of those tasks were especially difficult on their own and besides, after having spent the majority of the past weeks in the kitchen, Gon had them practically drilled into his subconscious. So then why, pray, tell, were all of his chiffon cakes coming out of the oven looking so droopy? It couldn’t have something to do with the oil, could it?

“I have to _sell_ these,” he frustratedly reminded himself when his fourth attempt returned from the oven resembling a defeated soldier. “People will be paying money for this.”

“They taste fine to me,” said Killua, straddling the back of a chair with his chin precariously balanced on its top rail. The glutton had been nibbling away at Gon’s failures for the past half-hour, and even had the gall to compliment them. Gon didn’t know how he had room to spare after ingesting a bag of chestnuts and _two_ mugs of spiced tea.

“And I don’t believe that for a second! Don’t you get dainty, posh-people cakes for dessert every day? Why are your standards so low?”

“It’s chocolate,” Killua shrugged, and went back to devouring the morsels of rejected chiffon cake. Gon closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and rose to a stand.

“You can’t keep eating away at my cakes, Killua! What am I gonna show Selasi when he asks for the samples?” When the prince responded with a noncommittal shrug, he added: “I’ll make vanilla next.”

The threat seemed to have its intended effect. Killua looked up worriedly from his portion and cried, “No! Why would you do that? You must know that vanilla is the most _detested_ flavour in the world, right? You won’t be able to sell a single one.”

“I don’t know which world you’re living in, but all our vanilla cakes sell just fine. There’s a guy called Leorio who lives round the corner and he loves them!”

Killua grimaced, brushing away the remnant crumbs from his fingers. “A disgusting flavour for a disgustingly-named man. Liorio, I say…”

“You’re one to talk!” countered Gon in what he hoped was an angry tone, in spite of the laugh spilling from his lips at the look of disapproval on Killua’s face. “Mister Killua Old-Dick.”

“Mister _what_?” he screeched, lifting his chin from the chair in clear indignation. “Three-hundred years of Zoldyck rule and nobody’s thought of that before? You may just have to copyright the term, Mister Freaky.”

Gon snorted. “Court jester, are you? I’ve heard that one at least seven times — you’ve lost your chance at copyrighting it.”

“Oh, whatever will I do now?” the prince whined, pushing his forehead against the wooden rail. “There’s somebody else in the world calling you Freaky? Someone else on par with my creativity? Off with their head!”

Gon smiled weakly, offering no rebuttal. His baking endeavours had taken more out of him than anticipated. He’d just cracked open his tenth egg for the day when he felt exhaustion ramming down on him like a physical weight. If Selasi decided to check up on his progress, he’d be dead meat, but the process of making another failed confection would undoubtedly result in the same thing. A break was warranted.

Killua was still babbling about the figurative execution of the others that had used the unfortunate nickname. “I’ll write them a letter on your behalf. 'Dear Copycat, you have deeply offended Prince Killua Zoldyck, who offers you a lovely vacation in the palace dungeons or even better, death! What will you choose? Warm regards, Gon Fre — wait, how do you spell your surname?"

" _Two_ S's?" he clamoured when the boy spelled it out for him. "Whatever do you need the second one for?"

"I have no idea," Gon said, pressing his elbows down onto the wooden work-table behind him. "I've never thought of it. Maybe my dad changed it to stand out."

"Oh, I see!" The prince began to nod excitedly, as if he'd been made aware of every truth of the known universe. "You're not just any Freecss. You're a Freecssssss."

Gon hissed back, taking delight in the playful atmosphere that had been established among the two. Sliding down the leg of the table, he plopped himself onto the cold, slabbed floor and rolled onto his stomach, slithering over the tiles in pursuit of Killua’s chair. The iciness of the floor beneath him was a welcome change, relieving him of the body heat he’d gathered while fussing over the oven. The prince took in the snake charade, cackling about the dust he’d be collecting on his tunic, only to yelp when Gon bared his fangs — well, in his case, canines — and pounced.

Killua was thrown off his chair in a very unprincely manner and ended up in a heap on the same ‘dust-ridden’ floor, strong brown arms encircling his waist. The chair, seemingly wanting to partake in the fun, also toppled forwards with a resounding crash, narrowly missing the pair. Gon grinned down at the snow-haired royal, scattered oil lamps spreading a glorious golden light over his features. His eyes were flung wide open and his lips were parted in surprise. Gon saw him glance down at his arms which were trapped between Gon’s own, and when he looked back up, his face was pink.

“So, uh, does your dad do this too?”

Gon swallowed and something closed up within him. The room seemed much darker all of a sudden. He pulled his arms back and edged away from Killua. “Maybe.”

It had been unintentional, but he could tell he’d disrupted the comfortable mood. The flush had vanished from Killua’s cheeks, who looked baffled at the coldness in his companion’s tone. Gon couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to feel guilty; Killua’s harmless mention of Ging had wrenched the foreigner back to the concrete kitchen floor, away from the cloud he’d momentarily been floating on. What was he _thinking_? He was wasting time at the expense of Mito’s strength and great-grandmother’s health. He hadn’t ventured on this wild goose chase for nothing! His family was in _need_ and he _had_ to find Ging. He—

“Have to get back to work, Killua.” He stalked over to the work-table, which was decorated in a fine layer of flour and smears of egg albumin. The break had certainly not been warranted. 

First, pouring in the flour. Then, separating the egg yolks from the whites. Yeast powder. Stirring the ingredients with a wooden spoon and a drizzle of vanilla extract. Gon grabbed the last clean mixing bowl off a rack and thumped it onto the table with more force than necessary. He was going to get it right this time. His family was in need and he had to find Ging.

“Gon.”

Of course! The powdered sugar, how had he forgotten it? He lunged across his workspace to where it lay on the opposite side. What had Selasi told him to do? Mix very gently at first and get gradually more vigorous. He had to find Ging.

“Gon.”

 _Why did Killua have to bring him up?_ , he thought, forgetting about the comment that had instigated this topic of discussion — his own. Everything had been going so well, his face close to Killua’s, his arms brushing against those of the prince...only for harsh reality to crash down on Gon like an icy torrent. He supposed he should be grateful for the reminder — no he _knew_ he should be grateful. Fuck, where had he kept the vegetable oil? Where was Ging?

“Gon!”

“What?” Gon thundered, turning on his feet. Killua was standing by the fallen chair, looking a little forlorn but immensely more composed than Gon felt. 

“Let me help.”

“Help?” he echoed, raising his eyebrows. “No offence, your Majesty, but what would you know about baking?”

“Oh, bits and pieces,” Killua said, walking over to an empty spot beside Gon. His voice was soft and cautious, even after Gon had made use of the mocking title. Life had never felt more unfair; he was looking for any reason to snap and let loose the emotions that were wrestling in the pit of his stomach, but Killua was making that damn difficult. He wasn’t giving Gon an opening to funnel his anger through, opting for a quiet and understanding tone instead.

He picked up a clear glass bottle and placed it in Gon’s hands. Viscous yellow liquid splashed around the walls of the container. Great. The mind-reader had known the ingredient that he’d been looking for. Now he really couldn’t get mad.

“Thanks,” Gon murmured. He poured the oil into a measuring cup to get the requisite amount: fifty milliliters.

Killua leaned back into the table, weight propped up by his elbows. It was a cruel imitation of Gon’s previous stance — cruel in the sense that the prince was executing it with double the amount of elegance. “Where do you think you’ve been going wrong with the other cakes?”

Hell if Gon knew. He’d been too focused on berating himself for squandering limited time to even consider analysing his past mistakes.

“I don’t know. I think I’m fucking up everything!”

“You’re not.” Killua nudged the bowl of dry ingredients that Gon had urgently compiled towards him. “Get started with this, alright? I’ll watch for mistakes.”

Gon let out a huff and began the perilous task. He was still lost as to how Killua could help. He didn’t expect for the prince to be acquainted with this line of work; sure, he guessed Killua received all sorts of fancy lessons from handsomely-paid tutors and governors but didn’t the servants take charge of cooking?

As he whisked the mixture into a smooth paste, the prince talked. It wasn’t anything like their earlier carefree banter — no, Killua’s words flowed out of his mouth as if part of a steady stream. His voice held that same degree of softness, treading a line between cool and fond. He’d shocked Gon into stillness when he’d begun this spontaneous soliloquy, and it had taken the boy’s brain a few seconds to catch up with Killua’s sentences. Upon understanding the prince’s words, Gon couldn’t help a bemused expression from clouding his face; Killua was reciting scientific facts.

“It’s interesting. The sugar and fat one includes in a cake play a big role in cooling it down. The starch in the flour wants to crystallise when the cake is cooled, which would make it hard and tougher to chew. To prevent that, we use copious amounts of sugar, which dehydrates the starch molecules in order to stop crystallisation. The fat keeps it moist and smooth.”

And so the prince spoke on, covering a range of topics that Gon had never imagined could exist. He maintained a fixed pace, never once raising his voice save for a few excited inflections. Gon mostly tuned him out, failing to see how this would benefit his cake-making. After a while, though, the hum of the boy’s voice in the background became unexpectedly pleasant.

When the time came to add the wet ingredients to the dry, Gon realised that the grip with which he was clutching his whisk had marginally decreased. He stopped in bewilderment and discerned that his mind had become clearer, his breaths were coming more easily. He couldn’t remember having placated himself. Confused but happy about the change, he continued melding together the mixture, soaking in Killua’s thoughts on ascorbic acid...and that’s when it struck him.

 _This_ was how he’d been helping. The clever bastard! Instead of probing deeper into Gon’s personal life or demanding to know why he was being treated so rudely, which he had full rights to do, Killua had entertained Gon’s temper tantrum with a series of _chemistry_ facts. And Gon, oblivious idiot that he was, hadn’t noticed the way he’d anchored onto the flow of knowledge like it was a lifeline.

In a heady rush, he felt his throat choke up with a feeling that could only be described as gratitude. He hadn’t been treated with such care and caution in a long time.

“Gon?” Killua’s voice sounded lovely and warm and Gon was afraid to look up, knowing that his eyes would start to well up if he caught a glimpse of that face. He cleared his throat instead, pointing towards the bowl in front of him.

“Do you — do you think I’ve stirred it enough?”

If Killua heard the tremble in his question, he didn’t comment on it. He slowly moved towards the black-haired boy and peered into the mixture.

“I don’t know if I’m a good judge. It looks okay?”

Gon dug desperately for his last threads of composure. He wasn’t going to cry. He was _not_. “Would you like to taste it, Killua?”

“Taste it? Is that allowed?”

“Well, it’s my cake,” Gon replied, shrugging before quickly amending his statement: “Our cake. You helped too.”

“Did I?” Killua whispered, hesitantly reaching for the spoon that sat in the bowl. He scraped it against the sides of the crockery, removing excess batter until it was left with a tiny sample. He brought the utensil to his lips warily, as if he was expecting it to bite him, and poked his tongue out through his lips. He gave the spoon a few experimental licks until it was spotless. Gon watched the process attentively.

Killua’s mouth curved into a smile. “It’s delicious! Forget what I said about vanilla being a terrible flavour. You’ve changed my mind.”

“Wait, really?” Gon tasted it for himself, giving a satisfied hum when he felt the familiar kick of vanilla on his taste buds. “Oh, thank God! I was worried I’d overdo the vanilla. I hope it comes out of the oven sturdy.”

He got to work at once, guiding the batter into a specially-moulded tube pan, shovelling any remains into a spare wooden cask to preserve. Or, as it turned out, for Killua to finish off. The prince had quite the appetite for the sweeter things in life. This did not exclude cake batter apparently.

After sentencing the tin to the oven, there was not much else to do. Killua helped Gon in cleaning the work-table, albeit rather slowly given his inexperience with washing up. The boy appreciated it nonetheless. He thought there was nothing Killua could do that he _wouldn’t_ appreciate, at this point.

“How do you know so much about baking sciences?” Gon asked him as they swept the surface with identical wet cloths. “I honestly can’t remember a single thing you said but it was really impressive.”

Killua displayed no modesty about his abundant knowledge. “Mother had me tutored in food science for a few months, two years ago. I thought it was sure to be boring, but it turned out to be quite exciting. The tutor really knew his stuff and it’s more motivating to learn when your teacher actually has a clue what they’re doing, you know?”

No, Gon did not know. He couldn’t fathom how Killua had remembered these elaborate details for two whole years. Facts didn’t seem to like being stored in Gon’s head — they’d take their leave almost as soon as they arrived. He couldn’t imagine being able to produce this information on command.

“Er, sure!” he chirped, not wanting for the conversation to end dismally. He wracked his brain for any example he could offer to relate to Killua. “Oh yeah, the lady that taught me how to dance was the same. Really passionate about it! We danced outside frequently, among nature, with the breeze swaying along. It was so fun.”

Killua suddenly looked coy. “What kind of...nature did you have on Whale Island?”

Gon was pleased that he’d asked. He loved his hometown and felt no shame in admitting that fact. “Well, for starters, there are hundreds of different trees. The woods in front of my house are full of poplar, maple, and birch. If you travel to the coastline you’ll find palm and coconut trees. And then, there’s a copse of willow trees neighbouring a lake that’s hidden from the rest of the island.”

“Hidden?”

Gon grinned, reminiscing the times he’d lazied about on the lakeside during summer. “I like to think I’m the only one that knows about the place. It’s fully enclosed by the trees, you see, and looks absolutely stunning during the day. So peaceful and quiet, with the sun shining above your head and the willow trees swishing from all sides. I used to spend all day there when I got upset.”

The prince had all but abandoned the clean-up. His head was slightly tilted up towards the ceiling, eyes unfocused upon the cracks in the plaster. “I have a place like that too.”

“A lake?” By way of natural beauty, Padokea didn’t have much going for it.

“No,” Killua snorted. “A place to go to when I’m upset.”

Gon kept his silence as he administered a final swab to the work-table, hoping that Killua would elaborate. He did.

“There’s an alcove in my bedroom that’s just a small space with an armchair for reading. A few years ago, though, I discovered a secret door of sorts.” He blushed. “It’s, um, a bit of a crude opening. There’s an unfixed floorboard beneath the chair. If you remove it, you’ll find a keyhole, which upon unlocking, will reveal a trapdoor down to a room filled with strange machinery and books. I haven’t a clue as to whose machines they are, but they’re very fascinating to look at. So, if I’m ever sad, I go down there to distract myself.”

“That sounds cool,” Gon mused. “I haven’t seen many machines before. You said there was a key?”

“Right, the key.” Killua pursed his lips, looking cross at the reminder. “It took me _so_ long to find, Gon, you wouldn’t believe it! I searched wherever I could when my family’s eyes weren’t on me. It turned out to be, to my greatest surprise, in a book about archaic machine systems.”

“That’s slick,” the islander snickered. He was inexplicably glad to discover that Killua had always had a rebellious streak. He assumed that he felt this way because it removed a bit of the guilt that burdened him whenever he remembered that Killua was going against his family’s wishes to visit _him_. But if he were honest with himself, the prince’s mutinous ways enticed him like nothing else did.

The alarm clock that Gon had set for the cake gave an excited ping, jolting him away from his thoughts. The moment of truth had arrived. If this one turned out like the others, he would forgo all his promises of not crying.

Shaking with trepidation, he approached the oven and pulled on his mitts. Delicately, he lifted the cake tin, brought it to an empty rack, and set it down. Steam was billowing through the top and Gon had to wait for the worst of it to clear before inspection.

It was, quite possibly, the happiest inspection of his life. The cake’s exterior was a hue of delicious brown, baked to perfection. Its structure was far from droopy; instead, it chose to stand tall and proud like a corrupt nobleman. It looked beautiful, smelled beautiful, and Gon wanted it in his mouth.

Apparently, Killua was struggling with similar whims. He staggered towards the confection, whose cheap metal rack currently resembled a pedestal, mouth open in shock. “It’s angelic,” he declared hoarsely.

“We can’t eat it,” said Gon after much self-restraint. “I have...to show Selasi.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” nodded Killua. He showed no indication of moving away from the cake. In fact, he almost fought Gon when the boy swiped it away from its resting place and exited the kitchen.

Selasi loved it. It wasn’t very often that he used the word, according to Zushi, so Gon must have done something right with the baking process. Maybe listening to Killua chant the entire scientific encyclopaedia had given him the boost he’d needed. However outlandish the reason, it did seem plausible.

“This is good stuff,” his boss said, munching on a slice he’d cut, while Killua looked on miserably, hood once again shielding his face from detection. Gon felt as if someone had murdered his baby. “Honestly wasn’t sure how much you’d get done with your friend distracting ya. Exceeded my expectations by a long shot!”

Gon felt compelled to inform Selasi of Killua’s invaluable role. “Er, Chris actually helped a lot! He knows about. Baking. And he helped clean up.”

Before Selasi could reply, the bell attached to the front door tinkled, and a customer appeared. He rushed in their direction, brushing off the crumbs that clung to his apron. This left Killua and Gon alone in the shop corner.

“I hate that stupid name,” Killua groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “It’s so _Sahertan_. Could you not have come up with something less plain?”

“Chris Zoldyck _is_ from Saherta. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Your identity is believable.” It was a poor excuse. Gon only knew around ten names that weren’t native to Whale Island — it left him with little choice.

“Who wants to be from Saherta?” He looked disgusted at the notion. “Ugly place with ugly, moustached men.”

“It’s not that bad! Yorknew City is quite...interesting.” Gon had no idea why he was defending the country and especially that city. He’d been kicked by its government patrol groups and jeered at by its gangsters. The only upside to the place was this quaint, little bar that he’d chanced upon. He had entered it in hopes of finding Ging, of course, who may have decided to take the alcoholic route in life. Instead, Gon had found that he enjoyed the taste of mead.

Killua grimaced when Gon recounted this story, leaving out the deadbeat father part, naturally. “I never really saw the appeal in alcohol. I’ve been drinking it since sixteen and everything I’ve had has tasted so bitter.”

“You’d probably enjoy sangria. It’s sweet and fruity. I’ve only had it once but if we go to that bar together someday, I’ll have my second glass with you!”

“Sangria,” the prince said. “I haven’t ever heard of it. It could be fun to try.” He looked appeased and shortly stopped harassing Gon over the shoddily-chosen alias.

Selasi made his way back to the corner in which they were huddled, evidently having finished with the customer. “I would say you boys deserve a break, don’t you? Go out and take the evening to yourselves. Wouldn’t do you harm to catch some fresh air.”

Gon gaped. “You’re serious?”

“Do I look like a dictator to you?” Selasi chuckled, good-naturedly. “I’m no Zoldyck. Go out and have some fun.”

Killua stiffened next to him, face hardened and unflinching.

Shit.

“I know somewhere great to go!” Gon announced, in a voice so squeaky, he would’ve been embarrassed if not for the current situation. He hurriedly grabbed the stationary prince’s hand and pulled him up to his feet, dragging him along the shop floor as fast as he could.

He flung the door open with all his strength, making it creak at the hinges, and ushered Killua out. The prince’s expression remained stoic and his limp hand made no attempt at holding onto Gon’s. It was deathly cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is relatively short, but i hope you don't mind too much! I desperately wanted to write the next few scenes from Killua's perspective.  
> if anyone's interested in the food science stuff, here's the [link!](dispatch.com/article/20131122/NEWS/311229879#:~:text=The%20carbon%20dioxide%20from%20the,in%20cakes%2C%E2%80%9D%20Vodovotz%20said.) it's online journalism but the information's on point (i hope).


	5. Chapter 5

The few drops of sunlight that splashed upon Killua as he was rushed outside the bakery, felt much too bright, despite the weakness of their intensity. The day’s unrelenting grey clouds ploughed on with their mission of blanketing the sky, leaving behind no trace of blueness.

The rough hand that had clasped Killua’s own on his way out, was now brushing against the small of his back, guiding him along a dusty path away from the shop. A _dusty path_ — not even a proper road. A poorly constructed track with dangerous rock outcrops and obstructing stinging nettles aplenty. Even Killua’s morning walks took place on deftly-cut stone slabs and freshly-mowed grass. He couldn’t recall ever having witnessed a speck of dust in his life; well, apart from in the hidden machine room.

He thought about his earlier walk through the Fadaean market. Everything had seemed so exciting and lively to him then, and it still very much was, but his present state of mind forced him to linger over the details of the scene: the cracks in brick walls, the leakages in pipes, the tiredness lining the faces of the vendors. It had undoubtedly been a fun, unforgettable experience and with a sudden certainty, he realised that he was the only one in the village, maybe the entire _country_ , that felt this way. Because for the townspeople, the market was merely a way of securing an income, of getting by, and they went about it so jovially that it had taken Killua an entire day to tell.

Of course, he’d known since his birth that others had it worse than him. He understood the kingdom’s hierarchy and the privileges that stemmed from his position in it, but never had he felt so _ashamed_ of his princehood. The polished palace walls and its plethora of delicacies were things that he had taken for granted, things that the villagers couldn’t dare to hope for. And wasn’t it Killua’s responsibility to instill that hope in them?

Selasi’s words rang clear in his mind — he didn’t think he would ever forget them. Were the Zoldycks dictators? No, technically, constitutionally they weren’t, but they might as well have been. The leniency with which they let the Royal Guard operate proved this. They entrusted the fate of the Kukuroo kingdom to an army of corrupt soldiers and unbotheredly went about their regal lives. They didn’t rule tyrannically; rather, they _ignored_ their subjects, and Killua couldn’t decide which was worse.

His musings left him inwardly reeling. For the majority of his life, Killua had regarded his father, the king, with admiration. He’d been a beacon of strength and fortitude, instructing advisors and guards with a scary air of authority. As a boy, Killua had taken to hiding behind heavy, deep-red drapes if only for a chance to overhear important discussions involving noblemen and extended royalty. He'd always thought his father spoke with such confidence and clarity, that he could've easily vanquished the universe if he put his mind to it.

Was that strong demeanor a farce? A mask that he wore to hide his own incapability? It chilled him to the bone to think of his father in such a way. He just _couldn't_ fathom it. Coming to terms with Padokea's aristocracy's incompetence was one thing, but changing the foundations of his upbringing was another. There had to be more to this.

Coming out into the real world was dangerous for someone like Killua. He knew himself and the way he wouldn't stop probing for answers until his thirst for them had been quenched. Hell, it hadn't even been a full day of exposure, and he could already feel his deep-rooted beliefs collapsing over one another. His family would inevitably catch on to this change and punish him for it — he was in a dangerous position.

Yet, to Killua, there was nothing as selfish as running away from reality. The idea of fleeing from the cries and criticisms of his own people to hide in a three-hundred year old castle sickened him, and besides, he'd never be able to lead the life that was expected of him under the pressure of this guilt. He would crack, shatter, and forever be known as ‘the prince who was too afraid to accept the ugly truth'. A coward.

And Killua Zoldyck hadn't lied to the royal family for a chance at a forbidden meeting, to be called a coward.

The subject of this meeting stood beside him, ambling along the path with light, easy steps. He looked to be in a pleasant mood, humming a foreign tune under his breath, but the tightness of his posture told Killua otherwise. Was Gon waiting for him to say something?

In any case, the prince felt thankful for the boy’s silence. He hadn’t butted his way into Killua’s raging thoughts or changed the topic. Whether this was the product of tact or the fact that Gon just didn’t feel like talking, Killua didn’t know, but the quiet had given him the space that he needed to pacify himself. Although ‘pacified’ was not a word he would apply to this situation.

“Gon,” he said as they stepped over a particularly deep pothole. “Where are we going?”

The tension fell from the boy’s shoulders with the grace of a silk gown. He looked so dynamic without it, spilling energy with every step. His movements, be they in a grand ballroom or on a scruffy dirt road, appeared to be fuelled by passion alone, as though he was born to live in that very moment. Even the episode in the kitchen hadn’t trampled his spirit — instead of closing off, he’d only gotten more brash, more vigorous. Killua still couldn’t comprehend what it had been about but he was glad it was over. As much as Gon’s fieriness awed him, he’d prefer to not be on the receiving end.

“There’s a park up ahead,” Gon replied. “Well, I think it’s a park. It’s got grass and trees and stuff.”

Killua huffed out a weak laugh. “That certainly sounds like a park. But then, it also sounds like every other place on the planet.”

“Not the desert! Those don’t have grass _or_ trees.” He seemed very proud of this refutation.

“Oh my, whatever would I do without your thought-provoking inputs. How could I forget the _desert_?” Each retort helped Killua feel a little lighter.

“I have no clue, since you literally live in one! This place is so dry!”

“You just said the park had trees and grass and stuff, how is that anywhere close to desert vegetation? Is the park in a different country? I wasn’t aware there was a border so close-by!”

Gon stuck out his tongue and Killua put every ounce of energy he possessed into fighting off a smile. “You haven’t seen real plants until you come to Whale Island. It’s the _only_ place for wildlife. Like, okay, maybe I’m biased but Saherta only had these ugly little ferns!” Killua muttered in agreement; everything about Saherta caused him pain. “Kukan’yu was hot as _hell_ so I think all their plants shrivelled up and died, all they had going for them was fish production, anyway. When I asked someone in Mimbo Republic about this sort-of cool flower I saw, the geezer threw a stone at me, so the Mimbonians get a zero out of ten for their manners. So yeah, that leaves Whale Island to take the cake.”

Killua’s eyebrows rose so high, they disappeared behind his white bangs. He didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone speak with such fervour about anything, let alone plants. But there was something about Gon’s defense of his patriotism that intrigued him more.

“Gon — just how much have you travelled?”

Gon stared at him as though he wasn’t aware he’d listed half the world’s continents. Bemusement quickly transitioned to embarrassment. “I’ve been, er, here and there. Out and about. Living out my youth.”

“And does ‘living out your youth’ entail laborious work at a Padokean bakery?” Killua asked dryly.

“I have to earn money from somewhere!” he bristled. “And Selasi’s really easy-going. There’s nothing ‘laborious’ about it, you’re just grouchy about that thing he said.”

“Don’t I have the right to be? He called my family a bunch of dictators!”

Gon showed no sympathy. “Isn’t that kind of what you are, though?”

Killua missed the last five minutes dearly — a glorious time during which their conversation had involved nothing but light, flavourful banter. Couldn’t they go back to that? The longer Gon eyed him, the more shame he could feel welling up in his stomach.

He sighed, giving a withered reply. “I didn’t know.”

Despite having dropped his gaze to the floor, he could pin-point the exact time Gon’s eyes left him. The boy hummed detachedly and his easy steps abruptly turned into strides. Killua had to scramble after him in an extremely unfashionable way to catch up.

After a period of quiet, Gon started to talk. 

“I’m looking for my dad.”

Killua sucked in a breath. He rushed to think of something to say, but Gon didn’t seem to expect a response.

“He left me when I was still a baby. My aunt and great-grandmother are the only family I’ve ever known and they—” he bit his lip, brown eyes narrowed and anxious, “—they’re not doing so well. He left a note before he left, saying that we could come to him if necessary. The genius didn’t think to include an address or anything.

“Anyway, that’s why I’ve been travelling so much. Trying to find him mostly. I thought staying here for a while to make some money would be a good idea. I’m planning to send my salary over to aunt Mito at the end of the month. So, I don’t travel much, never have before this year, but this is urgent. That’s your question answered.”

Gon turned to Killua with a confusing expression. It comprised a variety of emotions — Killua caught a hint of fear, a trickle of indignation, but what really shone through was trust. A silent message: _‘I want you to know this about me’._

Killua didn’t know how to respond to such a confession. He didn’t know a single person whose parent had _left_ them. Truthfully, all his acquaintances were the children of noble families who were tied together after years of abiding by tradition. Even if certain family members despised each other, they wouldn’t be permitted to leave. It was unheard of. He decided to go for a methodical approach.

“How do you plan on finding him?”

Gon’s lips thinned. The sun had begun its descent and as a result, the sky was now a gleaming twilight blue. The dying light cast shadows on the islander’s face in a way that made him look older than he really was. Killua had found his flour-covered morning look hopelessly endearing but the Gon of the dusk had an even stronger grip on the prince. His serious, contemplative look coupled with the effects of the sunset made him appear more mature, more put-together, more alluring.

“I usually pop into the shadiest-looking places I can find and ask about. You know, run-down inns, hotels, rock crevices, ravines. Not that I’ve seen a lot of those in the city.”

 _Okay, so not mature or put-together,_ Killua thought, fighting the urge to frustratedly pinch the bridge of his nose. _Still alluring, horrifically._ “You mean to tell me that you — barge into the most dangerous of places and yell about for your father? That’s your strategy?”

“Hey, I only start yelling when the other person yells first!” he retorted. “And it’s not like he left any clues. Just a crappy note that said to ‘come and find me if you’re ever in need’. The only reason we know it’s him that wrote it is because aunt Mito recognised his handwriting. I don’t have many leads, Killua.”

“And you’re sure that he means it?” Killua pressed on, ignoring Gon’s frown. “What if you find him and he offers you no help?”

The frown only deepened. “I’ve never considered that. Mito always said that Ging was an honest person, even if he _is_ the worst father of the century. And why would he refuse me?” He pouted, glancing up at the evening sky. “If he tries to do that, I’ll bite his leg and not let go until he helps.”

This shocked a laugh out of Killua. “Worse comes to worst, you can use emotional blackmail. Talk about how thin you are on account of his absence.” He braved a poke at Gon’s ribs. The soft material of his tunic cradled his finger.

“No offence, Killua, but if aunt Mito’s death threats had no effect on him, I doubt any sort of emotional manipulation will work,” Gon said, coming to a standstill. It took Killua a moment to realise why; they’d arrived at a clearing interspersed with many gnarly trees and wildflowers. The grass grew untamed, haphazard in length and in dire need of a cut. This was clearly the ‘park’ that Gon had been talking about. “It’d probably work for you, though. Your pretty eyes could get anyone to do anything.”

Killua hurriedly whipped around from where he’d been observing the field, the wind lashing against his flushed cheeks. “What?”

But Gon was nowhere in his direct line of sight. In fact, he was crouching, knees atop the prickly grass, grabbing for something that Killua couldn’t quite see. When he arose, he presented the prince with what he’d been clutching — a clumsily-made bouquet of bluebells.

“For you, my most graceful, benevolent, perfect prince,” he sang and then actually _winked_ at Killua.

Killua reached towards the flowers hesitantly, gazing at their lavender coloured petals, at the brown hand that offered them to him. He took them from Gon slowly, allowing their fingers to brush. The light touch had him fixated. The heat that sparked off the points of contact after the exchange was one that even his heaviest winter cloak couldn’t hope to provide. He really thought that he should reply with something quick-witted and sarcastic — that was how he generally communicated — but his mind was embarrassingly off-kilter. A constant thrum of _‘he gave me flowers he gave me flowers he gave me flowers’_ was the most he could manage.

And then his face paled, alarmingly so. Because Gon wasn’t the only one with flowers! Killua had collected a couple of snapdragons, he could recall it so well, as it had happened this very morning. He’d stuffed them in the pockets of the coat he’d worn to the Morows’, the coat which was… currently with Canary. They’d swapped their clothing apparel before parting ways.

Which deity had decided that it would be a good idea to let Killua Zoldyck exist?

Gon was staring at him in mild confusion. “Do you not like them or something?”

Killua startled, bringing the bluebells to his chest almost possessively. “Of course I like them! They’re beautiful. But I was meant to give you flowers too.”

“I didn’t realise we were trading them.”

The prince groaned, throwing his head back in exasperation. He didn’t care whether it looked like he was sulking. 

“No, you idiot… ugh, I’m the idiot. I’d picked up some snapdragons to bring you and I put them in my coat, which my butler took from me. Well, at least _she’ll_ get to enjoy them,” he added darkly.

Gon’s face broke into a dangerous smile. Killua could tell that the boy was about to say something very foolish and detrimental to the prince’s dignity. “Hmmm? You got flowers for _me_? The young and dashing prince Killua was thinking of this poor, little island boy?”

Killua thought that if Gon addressed him with another compliment, light-hearted and joking as it might be, he would unceremoniously fall to the ground. He scowled at him, eyes sinking to the grass that they stood upon and the swathes of bluebells that bejeweled it.

“Bringing somebody flowers on a visit is a very noble and gentlemanly thing to do!” defended Killua, feverishly trying to forget how he’d turned up at Hisoka’s manor empty-handed. “And I am a perfect gentleman, thank you!”

He lunged at the drooping blue flowers and ripped them from their roots. He made it a point to not look at Gon as he shoved the bunch in the boy’s chest, hand tightening around the impromptu bouquet that he’d received just moments before.

“Here. For you.”

When his courage returned to him, he found that Gon looked as though he was trying extremely hard not to laugh. It was humiliating, and the prince swore that he would never try to bestow upon him any sort of petaled pleasantry again.

The air around them had cooled drastically, forcing Killua to pull the cloak tighter around himself. When Gon spoke, his breath puffed into a swirling, white mist near his lips. “Won’t your butler be wondering where you are?”

The world froze for a scary second during which Killua felt his soul leave his shaken body. He blinked at the overhead indigo sky, willing it to change to the morning’s dingy grey; at least with that pretense, he wouldn’t be _six blithering hours late back to the castle._

“Christ almighty,” he breathed, unconcerned with the way his hands were clamming up and sweat was gathering at his brow. “How do I get back?”

Gon’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You could try hailing a cart back to the palace?”

Oh lord. “And pay the driver with what? Flowers? Threaten them into submission with a lovely stay in the dungeons?”

His partner looked unamused. “I don’t think exploiting the driver is necessary, after all that’s happened today.” The memory of the incident that he was hinting at made Killua’s stomach twist unpleasantly. “I’ll pay for you! It’s the least I can do.”

Killua frowned. “The least you can do for what? All I’ve done is disturb you and eat your food. And you’ve been paying for all the things we bought at the market too.” It was truly shameful — after eighteen years of living in royalty, you’d think that he would be able to pay for his own purchases.

“No, stupid. You’ve kept me company and cheered me up. I’ll pay for you.” Gon’s stare stayed steely and determined.

“Yes, because I’m sure my company was transcendent,” he snapped. Panic was building up inside him, making him argumentative and that was the _last_ thing he needed to be right now. “I’m sorry… how will I ever repay you?”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way.” Gon’s eyes lit up and he started walking in the direction they’d come from, waving Killua over. “I know a guy with a carriage that he may let you use. Come on!”

Killua had a million things he wanted to say. He wished to scold Gon for letting the literal prince rob him of his money and simultaneously drop to his knees and kiss the boy’s feet for his help. They were two very strange urges.

Collecting himself, he scampered after his spiky-haired companion whose figure could barely be seen due to the pervasive darkness. It was a relief when the pair reached the village proper, with its army of flickering oil-lamps that lit up the roads and Gon’s face. The boy led the way through the dwindling crowds, looking astonishingly like a native citizen. The easy familiarity with which he roamed finally brought them to a small but cosy-looking house. The front door was half open, allowing a stream of warm yellow light from within to flood the entryway.

“He’ll be inside,” Gon muttered, stepping across the threshold. Killua followed him rather uselessly, already dreading the questions he would be plagued with; from this man and from his family back home.

A brisk walk down a narrow corridor led them into an appropriately-lit living space. A number of chairs skirted the edges of the room and a single bed had been set up in the far corner. Killua spied a child lounging on it, gazing at the slim man that crouched by her side. He had black, uncontrollable hair — much like Gon’s but cut shorter. His long fingers were tying up the ends of a bandage that was wrapped around the girl’s knee and Killua could hear him speaking to her in hushed tones.

“Easy now, dear. Keep this band wrapped tight and your leg will heal like magic.” The girl smiled at him, eyes aglow with admiration, crinkling with laughter lines when he poked her gently on the nose. “Off you go now! Your mother will be wanting you back for dinner soon.”

She nodded, bouncing off the bed as though uninjured. “Goodbye Mister Leorio! Thank you!”

Killua’s mouth fell open. _This_ was Leorio? The man that liked Gon’s vanilla cakes?

He didn’t close it in time as Leorio turned to greet them, making for a shoddy first impression.

“Hey Gon!” he exclaimed with a surprised grin. “What brings you here?”

“Royal business,” the boy replied, sending a smirk in Killua’s direction. “My friend needs a lift back to the Zoldyck castle.”

Leorio looked rightly taken aback. He honed in on Killua with a stricken expression, examining the pale face beneath the hood, while the prince tried to pretend Gon hadn’t called him his ‘friend’. He did not want to smile like a madman around this tall stranger.

“You’re… a prince?”

Oh, how Killua wished he wasn’t. “Yes. I am a prince.”

This admission appeared to be too much for Leorio, who squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his arm. After a moment of awkward silence, Gon grabbed the reins of the conversation. “He really needs to get back, Leorio. Could we _please_ borrow your carriage for the night?”

“You… oh, to hell with it. Take the carriage. I need to sit down — I want you back with an explanation and about six vanilla cupcakes, mind.” The man looked exhausted and in any other circumstance, Killua would have laughed, but he could currently only feel grateful for his generosity. “The driver should be somewhere near it, smoking with his buddies or something.”

Gon presented him with a beaming smile and a word of thanks, before grasping Killua’s wrist and bounding outside. He manhandled the prince all the way to a charcoal-black carriage where, indeed, a portly old man stood smoking a cigar. The carriage itself was worn-down and patchy with dents in the side, but Killua couldn’t care less. He only needed it to be functional.

Gon listed hurried instructions to the driver, who seemed too busy with the last of his cigar to ask any nosy questions, and urged Killua up the iron steps and into the vehicle. Only once the prince was seated to his comfort did he back away, wearing a feeble smile that stabbed at Killua’s heart.

“I guess I’ll see you around?” he said, brown eyes hopeful.

Killua wanted to melt on the spot, seep through the carriage door, and reform in Gon’s arms. He’d never felt this _safe_ with anyone before. He recognised this thought as silly and maudlin but couldn’t refute the trueness in it; these eight or so hours had been close to perfect, despite the unwarranted twists and turns. Their day felt like an entire novel to Killua, who refused to let this be the final chapter.

So, he nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the islander’s. “We will meet again.”

He was unsure when or how such an opportunity would present itself but promised that when it reared its head, he would tackle it by its horns. This was something he didn’t want to lose.

One of the carriage horses whinnied, Gon raised his hand in farewell, and Killua was whisked away into the night.

\----

Leorio’s driver, whose name Killua had learned was Sandler, dropped him a ways from the front gates. After profusely thanking him and wishing good fortune upon his family, the prince circled the castle’s perimeter until he found the back door which would lead him directly into his own wing. He supposed that he should make an appearance in the Great Hall to appease whatever fuss his mother must be kicking up but couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet. He wanted to freshen himself up before being subjected to punishment and so he started up the marble staircase, until he caught a glimpse of curly black hair in the periphery.

A severely ruffled-looking Canary who’d been making her way to the same back door, stood rooted to the spot, ogling Killua with wide eyes.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Lord Killua, you — I’d completely forgotten!”

She rushed to him with plaintive steps. “Are you alright? You didn't get hurt or anything, did you?" Offering him no chance to reply to these inquiries, she leaped to start patting down his arms and shoulders, evidently checking for injuries. Killua tried to shake her off to no avail. She'd never acted like such a mother hen around him before and it was making him feel a bit odd.

"Hey, Canary, I'm okay!" he yelled, waving his arms in her face. "Everything is perfectly fine. It won't be when mother and father find out where I've been."

Canary sighed grimly. "His and her Highness haven't realised your absence yet, actually."

All he could do was stare at her. His parents were extremely observant people and usually the first to notice anything disorderly or awry. They weren't the type of people to simply _forget_ about their own son.

And then a peculiar noise pierced the silence: raised voices. They seemed to be coming from a long distance away, perhaps the Great Hall, but the acidity in them could be heard all the same. It wasn't often that the castle's residents talked in volumes beyond ten decibels and it had him quirking an eyebrow, imploring Canary for an explanation.

Her eyes darkened and her voice turned grave. "They have been quite worried about another matter. It was discovered shortly after your and Lord Illumi's departures, that a heist was undertaken on the night of the royal ball."

Killua's breath hitched. A heist? But who could have… who would have… ?

"The Maha has been stolen, my Lord."

Canary spoke so lucidly that he couldn't even pretend to have misheard; he instead took his time in nursing the winded feeling her words had left him with. It couldn't be — how on earth would anybody be able to steal _that_ without dying?

"You're not serious?"

His butler thinned her lips. "I wish it was a joke."

The Maha. It was a thirty-inch steel sword with a sapphire encrusted hilt, said to have been forged in the now-dormant volcano that the Kukuroo kingdom was famous for. For centuries, it had been bequeathed to successive Zoldyck kings and queens, used by them in war, at coronations, at religious ceremonies. It was, essentially, the biggest symbol of the Zoldyck rule and was worth more than Killua. Maha Zoldyck, the ancestor who'd lived three centuries ago, had received it as a gift from the world's most talented blacksmiths. They claimed to be wizards. This was basic Zoldyck family history — Killua had had it drilled out to him more times than he could remember.

He hadn't seen the legendary sword many times in person. It was locked inside the kingdom's most impenetrable building: Strom. The high-security tower was well protected by a siege of talented guards. The only people who were permitted to see it were the king and an expert blacksmith who visited on a bi-monthly basis to resharpen and polish the blade. Even the pompous army general wasn't allowed anywhere near Strom; he would be Killua's first suspect if he was.

So which talented bastard had stolen it? Could it have been a _bunch_ of talented bastards?

This reminded Killua of something else Canary had stated. "How do you know it was stolen on the night of the ball?"

"It's most likely, isn't it? The fact that three entire villages were invited certainly invites the possibility that the thief could hail from one of them. The investigators think the shoe that Mike found is linked to the case."

Killua slowly nodded. It did make sense but also relied too much on coincidence. How could anybody be sure that the singular shoe had anything to do with the robbery? He asked Canary the same.

"It's possible that we're mistaken," she replied, chewing her lip. "But it's the biggest lead we've got thus far. The guards have been instructed to visit the villages tomorrow and check for guests whose feet fit perfectly in the shoe."

"What a crude method." Killua sniffed. "Surely, science had made enough advancements for them to stop relying on such silly ways! Who on earth told them to do this?"

"Commander Genthru," Canary said, throwing a nasty scowl to the ground. Killua agreed with the sentiment — Genthru was a nightmare who took pleasure in ruining people's lives. And for some reason, possibly for this reason, he had been put in charge of the entire Royal Guard. Killua thought back on the kindly villagers and wondered, with a shudder, just how many of them had been wronged by his family's poor choices in generals.

Canary's expression suddenly cleared and once again blazed with a sincere apology. "And because of the havoc that this news wreaked, it escaped my mind that I had to pick you up from Fadae. I am ever so sorry, Lord Killua."

Killua shook his head. "It's alright, Canary, I understand the circumstances. Gon helped me to take a carriage back here, anyway."

"Gon?" she repeated, eyebrows furrowing. "Oh, I see, the boy! How was he?"

How was he? _Absolutely gorgeous_ , Killua wished to say. _A work of art._ Instead, he settled for an embarrassingly succinct "good".

Canary moved her mouth to continue speaking when a loud shriek interrupted her. It came from much nearer this time, definitely from his own wing.

"Killua!" the voice called and with a horrific jolt, he realised that it was his _mother's_. "Where are you?"

He stumbled up the stairs, intercepting her just before she could enter his bedroom. She turned to him with dark, fearful eyes.

"I am reinstating the guards outside your bedroom," she said with a haughty air. "Do _not_ attempt to argue with me. The Maha has been stolen by some thieving runt and I do not want my children to go missing as well!"

As if Killua was going to argue with his mother in such a mood. "Yes, mother," he droned, dipping his head downwards. Her relentless screaming had made him realise how weary he was. He craved rest.

It had been the strangest day of his life, yet by far the most memorable. Never before had he accomplished so much in the span of twenty-four hours and his tired bones creaked in agreement.

With his stomach full of chiffon cake and his mind swimming in remembrance of a crackling kitchen fire and messy bluebell bouquets, Killua Zoldyck surrendered his consciousness to slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canonically, maha zoldyck is still alive and is the oldest living zoldyck in the hxh universe. i just thought their name was fucking dope and wanted to name an heirloom after it so here u have it: the maha sword
> 
> i'm also planning to stop adding summaries at the beginning of each chapter bc it kinda ruins the vibe? let me know if you guys want them tho!


	6. Chapter 6

The following morning felt like yesterday evening’s pure antithesis. As Killua departed from his bedroom, nodding to the guard that had been newly stationed outside it, he noticed an eerie layer of silence blanketing the castle and its interior chambers. The walls seemed soundproof and smothering, pressing in on Killua as if to trap him. He had the chilling hunch that they knew of his escapade to Fadae, and felt suddenly fearful. But no — it simply wouldn’t do to frighten himself like this, especially when he had a reception with the king first thing after breakfast.

Giving himself a shake, he started in an absent-minded fashion towards the marble steps that would lead down to the back door. Immediately, he stopped. There would be no more of that. The guard would report his every action to his mother, who was currently blissfully unaware of Killua’s one secret getaway. He swivelled around and made his way to the main north wing staircase.

At breakfast, Alluka made several attempts at dissecting information about the sword from her brothers. She and Kalluto, both too young to make an adequate contribution to the case, were to go about their regular schedules and ignore the fact that a three-hundred-year-old Zoldyck heirloom had gone missing. In Killua’s opinion, she was taking this exclusion very well; God knows which eavesdropping techniques he would have resorted to.

The Great Hall felt cold and forbidding when the three eldest princes entered it. Their father was seated on his throne, waves of power and authority ebbing off his figure. Killua tried very hard to think of him as an inept ruler who had failed his people. It proved impossible. How could such a stern, penetrating gaze belong to an incompetent king?

He turned his blue eyes on Killua, halting all coherent thought in the boy’s mind. His father seemed to be able to see _through_ him as though he were nothing but a sheet of transparent glass. A dull throb of paranoia made itself known at the back of Killua's head.

The sound of heels clacking against the castle floor served as an appropriate distraction to Silva, who momentarily looked away from his son. Killua shifted slightly to get a better view of the visitor. A glimpse of familiar lemon-blond hair had his mouth curling in disgust.

Commander Genthru had his head tilted towards the floor in the semblance of a bow. His signature angular spectacles perched on the edge of his long nose, looking to be centimeters away from falling off his face altogether. Killua wished they would.

“You called for me, Your Highness?” he said, rearing his head.

Silva assessed him. “Indeed, Commander Genthru. I feel that your input would be most welcome in the midst of this distressing incident.”

Genthru smiled the worst smile that Killua had ever witnessed. It was smug, self-righteous, and downright creepy. He wanted to scream at his father, reprimand him for trusting such an obviously corrupt man who had single-handedly tarnished the reputation of the Zoldyck family by making a hellscape of the kingdom. Didn’t the king know what his own people thought of him?

“I would be most pleased to be of any use.”

Silva gave a terse nod, settling his gaze back onto the princes. Illumi and Milluki seemed unfazed by the exchange, and waited patiently for their father to continue — well, Milluki was fidgeting a bit, but that probably stemmed from an urgency to return to his ‘gaming quarters’.

“You three are of appropriate age to help our private investigators in recovering the Maha,” the king said. “Illumi, you are physically adept. Milluki, you are technologically sound. And Killua’s strengths lie in the sciences. I believe that you can use these skills to our advantage.”

If his brothers were affected by these rare words of praise, they hid it very well. They retained the cool facade of placidity that they always wore around their father, but Killua knew that it wasn’t often they received compliments straight from the king.

“I assume you are all aware of the task that has been handed to the Royal Guard today,” Silva continued. “They are to interrogate each person that appeared at Alluka’s ball three days ago. A registry of names of the attendees was prepared on that very night — it will be used for cross-checking purposes. The main objective is to find people whose feet fit perfectly within the lone shoe that Mike discovered. This group is to be brought to the castle for further questioning.” He took a breath.

“It is by no means a foolproof method. As you may have worked out, there is no guarantee that the thief is a resident of these villages in particular and may, in fact, belong to a different country altogether. But," he locked eyes with Genthru, "Commander Genthru suggested that it was the best way to start the investigation and I whole-heartedly agree."

Genthru, apparently, had no problem with publicly displaying his elation at the royal kudos. He bowed once more, wearing a terrible grin on his pointy face.

“Henceforth, I want you three to work with the general. You will do your best to support him and put your knowledge to use. For now, however, please introduce yourselves to the investigators and allow them to brief you on the case.” Silva raised a dismissive hand. “That is all.”

Killua turned to leave, trying his level best not to let any sign of discomfort flutter over his features. How he was expected to work with the blond conceited bastard, he didn’t know and didn’t much care to find out; except, that he’d just been royally ordered to do so. Was Genthru secretly reading bedtime stories to his father? How could anyone justify entrusting the fate of the family’s greatest heirloom to this absolute airhead?

The meeting with the private investigators proved futile. Killua hadn’t hoped for much else — before the guards returned with the unfortunate convicts in tow, all they could do was speculate. The investigators went into profuse detail about the shoe: its design, its structure, its durability. Since the guards had taken it along on their wild goose chase, someone had drawn a diagram. The shoe seemed quite standard, slightly heeled and made of dark brown leather. Apparently, its interior had been a little blackened and chafed, meaning that either it was often in use, or that the user had partied especially hard that night.

Killua felt it appropriate to add that according to their findings, the thief was a walking contradiction. Only an absolute mastermind would stand a chance of stealing the Maha and live to tell the tale, yet only an absolute idiot would _leave their bloody shoe behind_. This, for some strange reason, did not go down well with his audience. He left the room feeling a bit underappreciated.

As the brothers began to part ways, slinking away towards their respective destinations, Illumi decided to speak. “I’m surprised nobody mentioned the Phantom Troupe.”

Killua stopped. His brother had a point — how could they overlook the Phantom Troupe? It was the world’s most infamous band of thieves, known for the grandeur of its heists and schemes. The members, each one unidentifiable, would stop at nothing to get their hands on rare, often legendary treasures. Their proclivity for stealing shiny things was also well-documented. Killua remembered hearing news about various jewels, riches, and on a particularly peculiar occasion, eyeballs going missing. To link those nefarious bandits to the disappearance of the Maha didn't seem that far-fetched.

"Do you really think they could be behind it?" Killua asked.

"Why not?" Illumi sounded exceedingly light-hearted about such a cumbersome suggestion. “The Maha is dazzling, almost impossible to steal, and worth billions. It meets all of the Troupe’s criteria. Additionally, its members are perhaps the only people who are skilled enough to get away with a crime of this scale.”

Milluki butted in at this point, scowling. “The Phantom Troupe would never leave behind a _shoe_.”

“Nobody’s certain that the shoe belongs to the thief, Milluki,” Killua reminded. “It could easily be a guest’s. They probably got too drunk and didn’t notice that they’d misplaced it.”

“Trust that lot to get drunk on such a disgusting brand of champagne,” snorted his pig of a brother, taking nothing else from Killua’s theory. “They don’t have any sense of civility.”

Only eighteen years of a strict Zoldyck upbringing prevented Killua from angrily lashing out. “I happen to know a number of people who wouldn’t consider living on a primarily fat-based diet and fantasizing about naked women especially ‘civil’ either, but whatever you say, Milluki.” He took off before the idiot could wrap his mind around what he’d said, only narrowly missing Milluki’s hand when it attempted to vengefully grab the back of his tunic.

\----

A fresh coat of snow had formed on the palace grounds by the time the guards returned. The sun seemed to have been whisked out of existence and the royal servants found themselves igniting oil lamps and candelabra hours before the seven o’clock customary sunset. Killua’s day had been nothing out of the ordinary, considering the circumstances — he had attended his lessons, eaten as much as he always did, and pored over a couple of wordy scientific journals.

The sentry shielding his room from ‘imminent danger’ (Mother’s words, not his) knocked lightly on the door and poked his head in. Another guard seemed to have joined him at some point and Killua couldn’t fault him for it; their job looked mind-numbingly boring. 

“His Highness has asked for your presence in the Great Hall, my Lord,” the man informed him. “It would appear that the suspects have been brought in.”

Killua got to his feet and stretched, hurling a hefty leather-bound tome off his lap in the process. He took a few seconds to remember how to walk again — he’d been sitting for an awfully long time — and then, he and a singular guard were off, descending the sweeping marble staircase into the Great Hall.

The doors were already open by the time they arrived and Killua spotted a number of familiar faces waiting for him and several other members of the nobility. The butlers stood in a neat row, sporting solemn looks. The head butler, Gotoh, had a white sheet of parchment in his hands. Genthru was pacing near the king’s throne with a small group of soldiers conversing behind him, wearing the same self-congratulatory look from before, and a few courtiers could be seen dotted around the room. It was rare for the hall to ever be this full and Killua felt the urgency of the situation finally sink in.

After half the entire country’s population had gathered in the room, his father started to talk. His voice came out faintly strained, more tired than Killua had heard it in a long time.

“Our guards have managed to procure the possible thieves from the three villages that attended the princess’ ball. The suspects are currently being held in the dungeons and will be interrogated once this meeting has been adjourned. My family and I are immensely grateful to Commander Genthru and his sentinel for their outstanding work today, and I would entreat our head butler, Gotoh, to read aloud the list that comprises the fruit of their endeavours.”

All heads turned Gotoh’s way. The butler, unfazed by the attention, cleared his throat and adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles. Killua suddenly felt inexplicably anxious and the worry multiplied tenfold when he spied Canary’s fearful expression. She held her head high from where she stood beside Amane, but her eyes were flung wide and her lips were pressed in a thin, foreboding line.

She spotted him staring and gave a minute jerk of the head in Gotoh’s direction. He interpreted it to mean that he should pay utmost attention to the head butler’s words, which had been the plan anyway. But why was she specially requesting it? How could simple names on a simple list elicit such a potent reaction from her?

In hindsight, he should’ve seen it coming.

“From the village of Eaza, the royal guards have apprehended Mercurio Newton, nineteen, and Victoire Aspardi, nineteen.” Gotoh recited the names as if they were merely ingredients of a commonplace recipe. “Yatan brings us Jispa Falconer, twenty-four, Kurapika Kurta, twenty-three, Abengane Astrid, twenty-six, and Baise Kusste, twenty-eight. And finally, it appears that in Fadae, only a single person was taken in.”

Canary bit her lip. A bead of crimson sprung from the wound.

“Gon Freecss, eighteen.” Gotoh peered up from the parchment and looked towards the king. “That completes the list.”

The Great Hall, even in the midst of a biting winter, offered an abundance of warmth, be it from the impressively decorated fireplace or the vast number of dazzling oil-lamps that lit up the room. Additionally, everyone had congregated wearing their warmest clothes, made of resilient furs that warded off the cold.

In spite of all of this, Killua could not remember ever having felt colder.

Father was speaking again in that commanding tone of his, no doubt sharing crucial information with those present, but Killua couldn't hear him. A tinny sort of sound had begun to ring in his ears. He tried to rid himself of it by shaking his head, his shoulders, his hands until he realised they were shaking of their own accord. It didn't seem that they wanted to stop.

Canary shot him a pitying look, subtly wiping away the blood from her bottom lip. Abruptly, he understood the reason behind her prior uneasiness, feeling a spike of jealousy at how she was handling herself. If Killua wasn't gnashing his teeth together to avoid the same, there would be much more than a measly drop of blood on his lip.

He felt hopelessly overstimulated. The orange licks of the hearth’s flame stabbed at his vision with a piercing sharpness and the ringing noise had only gotten louder, drowning out the sounds of hasty orders, ruffling of coats, fidgeting of courtiers. His hands, where they grasped the seams of his trousers, continued to shake and struggle, and Killua wanted all his motor functions to stop. How had he ever managed to juggle five senses when now, he couldn’t handle one?

Gon couldn’t be here. He wasn’t meant to be here. He belonged to the ocean, or to the earth — that fact was clear as day! His browned features and bright eyes bespoke his affinity to the outdoors, and subjecting such a person to the decadent dungeons was akin to trampling over their soul. He could wilt like a winter snapdragon that lay forgotten in a careless prince’s coat. Worse yet, he _would_ wilt in that same prince’s _home_.

Killua felt sick. He was sure he looked it, too, if the questioning looks his mother was sending were anything to go by. How could he explain any of this to her, though? His mind offered him only a single possibility of reprieve and Killua decided, as he watched his father’s directive taper to an end, that the time to act had to be now.

His words were such a big breach of custom that Silva had to take a pause before responding.

“You wish to visit the prisoners in the dungeons? Why on earth would that be necessary?”

Killua forced his body to calm down. Only a cool head would help him get his way.

“Yes, Father. All the research I have done has led me to the conclusion that inspecting the suspects’ feet is the best course of action we can currently take. If I get a feel of their,” he coughed, “feet, I’ll have a clue as to which of them could’ve likely committed the crime.”

Silva raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Damn it all, why did the man want answers _now_ , with the whole royal court listening? Couldn’t he just be a nice, generous father and let Killua take advantage of his princely privileges?

“Well,” Killua began, wanting to leave it there. Well. “Obviously, someone with more calloused and heavy feet wouldn’t be fit for the heist due to the sound their steps would make. Someone with lithe feet, on the other hand, would be more suitable. These facts will greatly aid me with my scientific research, Father.”

He was speaking out of his ass and Silva knew it, of course he did. He could read his son like the world’s most easy-to-read bedtime storybook. Any minute now, the court would be dismissed and Killua forced to stay back to explain his delusional reasoning. He tightened his hold on his pant leg.

“I accept your request. You may inspect the suspects.”

Killua’s mouth dropped open in a way so uncouth, that his mother personally _tsk_ ed at him.

“On the sole condition that you allow Commander Genthru to accompany you.”

He snapped it shut.

“Genthru is the leader of this investigation, as I have told you, and is to be informed of any and all details you unearth. Thus, it would only be practical if you took him along,” his father continued. “You both may go.”

It was with all the dignity that was expected of a Zoldyck, that he turned towards the exit. He could feel the others’ eyes on his back, studying his frame for a single leak of emotion, and hardened his posture. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure of an entertaining reaction.

Although that felt hard to refrain from when he heard the tell-tale clack of expensive leather following him out through the door.

Genthru caught up to him in three long strides. Killua refused to acknowledge him, looking resolutely ahead, and the general didn’t attempt to force a conversation either. They made their way past a series of similar-looking corridors in blissful silence, before Genthru rudely broke it.

“You’ll forgive me for asking, Lord Killua, but do you know where the palace dungeons _are_?”

His stomach gave a horrific lurch. _Did_ he know? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d entered them… it wasn’t every day your foreign friend got thrown in prison for thievery, and Killua hadn’t seen much need to bother with them before now.

“I have been to them before,” he said. “Surely, I would remember.”

“But do you?” Genthru asked.

Killua stared up at the lanky man with total contempt, wishing he was ever-so-slightly taller. If the dolt thought Killua was going to admit to forgetting, he had another thing coming.

“Do _you_?” he snarled, and immediately regretted it. He had never sounded more childish in his life.

“I may have a clue or two.” Genthru’s face was deliciously punchable at that moment. “If you would be so kind as to follow me…”

Killua begrudgingly decided that he’d better be ‘so kind’ if he was to gain anything from this and traipsed after the general in the opposite direction. If he strained his hearing, he thought he would be able to hear the universe cackling at his fate.

\----

The first indicator that one had reached the Zoldyck dungeons, was the smell of the air around its entrance. The castle usually smelled of absolute nothingness, but the iron door that led down to the dreaded prison allowed a stale, musty stench to seep through the gap above the floor.

The second indicator was the state of the rooms that lay in its vicinity. The difference was barely noticeable but Killua caught it — the parquet floors were less polished here than they were elsewhere, with dust scattered all over the memorabilia contained within the rooms. It was clear that fewer servants cleaned this part of the castle. Killua could only imagine the state of the actual dungeon. No — he would be privy to it in just a moment.

Genthru toed the door open; as though the prospect of touching them, even with leather gloves on, was too gruesome for him. With a cough, he motioned for Killua to enter it, and here the prince came to know of the third indicator: the prison itself, obviously.

The sight of it washed away the irritation that Genthru’s presence had caused him. It, for lack of a better word, _stank_. The pungent smell that he’d caught a whiff of outside, increased in intensity the more he travelled down the stony steps. A layer of grime covered whatever he could see of the walls, with a cobweb or two as a finishing touch.

The same sense of helplessness that Killua had experienced in the Great Hall returned with a threatening ferocity. The place was so decrepit and isolated from the real world. Killua had heard stories of longtime prisoners going mad and if they had to subsist in such an environment for all their life, who could blame them? And if Gon had to stay here… no. He couldn’t let his thoughts stray in that direction.

“Where are they?” he breathed.

“Just up ahead,” Genthru answered, jauntily descending the stairs. He stepped over a dark smear that Killua fervently hoped wasn’t blood.

Every step sent a stronger chill crawling up Killua’s spine. The air made it hard to breathe, becoming more stifling as they carried on down the passage. With the souls of all those who had lived and died in this hellhole pressing upon his shoulders, walking felt like a very laborious task.

Just when he thought he couldn’t go any further, they bumped into a guard.

The man had a gun strapped to his front and looked a moment away from dozing off on his feet. Genthru’s arrival, however, seemed to be somewhat of an electric shock, straightening him up at once.

“Sir,” he rasped. “Prisoners in the interrogation room. Got ‘em tied up on the floor. Did’ja want to see them?” His eyes turned to Killua and he froze. “You too, your, uh, Highness.”

Killua chose not to deign to acknowledge him. He was too busy wondering why the bloody _interrogation room_ was all the way down here.

“Prince Killua and I have requested an audience with them. Lead us to the room at once.”

The interrogation room seemed to be a world of its own. As Killua approached it, he heard loud, shouting voices and felt inexplicably glad for them. That gladness died as soon as the door opened to reveal the source of the voices.

Seven people of varying appearance sat squirming on the filthy floor, bound tightly with thick lengths of rope. An array of gun-wielding guards stood around them, some looking smug and others bored. The screaming originated from a pink-haired woman who appeared to be channeling all her strength into her words instead of struggling against the ropes. A brown arm drooped against her own. Killua refused to find out who it belonged to.

“You lying fucks!” the woman spat, green eyes blazing. “Let me out of these and I’ll show you where you can stick that gun of yours!”

“You’ll shut your trap if you know what’s good for you,” drawled a guard, shuffling closer to her. “That, or I’ll show you exactly what this musket’s used for.”

“Bennet!” hissed the sentry that had brought them to the room. “Shut _yer_ trap, the prince ‘nd general are here!”

Bennet paled at the message and sank into a bow so low, he almost fell. “My apologies, sir.”

Genthru waved him away, training his bespectacled gaze on the convicts. “Prince Killua wishes to inspect your feet in relation to the robbery that took place four nights ago. You will allow—”

“Royal little pervert got a foot fetish, has he?” growled a light-haired man in tattered clothing. “Charming.”

A nearby guard kicked him harshly in the chest, causing the man to choke and splutter in pain. Killua curled his hands into rigid fists.

“You are _forbidden_ from using violence with them!” he heard himself yell. “That’s an order!”

The room grew quiet as the guards exchanged bewildered looks. Eventually, the one named Bennet mustered up the courage to say, “my Lord, with all due respect, we only follow orders from Commander Genthru.”

Killua looked to Genthru, who seemed to be trying very hard to not laugh. “Tell them to not use violence… Sir General.”

“Yes, yes, you heard him,” he hummed. “No violence and all that.”

This statement was apparently vastly humorous. The guards’ faces lit up with secretive smiles, as though this particular order was an inside joke amongst the army. The sentry that had kicked the suspect slowly backed away from him, silently chortling.

“Go on then,” said Genthru. “Check their feet.”

“I’d avoid getting too close, your Majesty,” someone chuckled. “Some of them smell _real_ bad.”

Killua edged towards the suspects, trying not to focus on any one of them in particular. He crouched in front of a dark-skinned man, tugged the leather off his left foot, and gently placed it to the side.

He supposed that if he’d been in a calmer state of mind, this process would have been extraordinarily humiliating — he was on the floor touching strangers’ _feet_ , for God’s sake. On top of that, he was being watched in the act. It was no place fit for a prince, but then neither was it fit for Gon, and Killua couldn’t rest before making sure he was okay.

After the first few convicts, he developed a rhythm to his assessment. He would start by checking the bridge of their foot, then the ankle, then each toe, marking each scuff and blister he came across. Next, he perused the sole and heel for cracks or tears. Finally, he asked the suspect their name and moved on to the next as soon as they whispered it.

He was currently on the sixth, he was sure, and still hadn’t heard the name he was searching for. It made him feel somewhat hopeful — maybe there had been a mistake in the list, or maybe it was another Gon Freecss. Perhaps one with a single ‘S’ to conclude his surname. Maybe none of this was real, the stale prison air and Genthru’s sinister smiles a figment of Killua’s imagination — and then he moved on to the seventh convict.

They wore charcoal black leather boots adorned with a worn, silver clasp. Their scent hadn’t yet succumbed to the dungeon’s and reminded Killua of a certain Fadaean bakery, which he’d stalked out of just twenty-four hours ago.

For the entirety of this ridiculous foot examination, Killua had refrained from looking at the suspects’ faces. He didn’t think he’d be able to bear it, making eye contact with the people he’d essentially be imprisoning; it felt too personal, too burdensome. But with this one, he had to know.

Hurt, amber eyes met his gaze.

Killua was frozen. The floor seemed to have fallen from beneath his knees. It really was him. How could that unmistakably soft, onyx hair belong to anybody else? He’d felt it under his own fingers yesterday; now, lying within an inch of him, it seemed worlds away.

Gon’s expression screamed mistrust. He scowled at Killua as if the prince had betrayed him, and the crystal clear conviction in his eyes almost led Killua to believe him. His lip curled in white-hot fury and his nostrils flared and Killua craved, semi-suicidally, to hold him. This same mouth had called his eyes pretty, ruthlessly teased him, called him his _friend_. Now, it seemed seconds away from spitting at the prince.

“What’s your name?” Killua bit out.

Gon’s voice was hoarse, as though he’d been using it to yell. “Aren’t you gonna check my foot first?”

Killua cursed himself and hastily unbuckled the boot, hoping to salvage the situation. The only thing that could make this nightmare worse was Genthru discovering their relation with each other. “Of course. Sorry.”

The footwear slipped off, revealing a caramel-coloured foot splattered with angry, red blisters around the toes and heel. Killua sucked in a breath, heart pulsing in a rapid motion as he scanned the welts. He was sure that Gon’s feet had been spotless when they had met. What could he have done in such a short span of time to receive such injuries?

Unbothered by the spectators crowding over them, Killua traced the blisters with a light touch, wincing when Gon hissed at the contact. They looked so sore and disturbingly fresh, like they’d emerged a few hours ago at most.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

Gon exhaled shakily. Killua could feel the boy’s eyes on him. “Gon.”

“Gon,” the prince echoed. “How did you get these blisters?”

Before the islander could begin formulating a reply, Genthru stepped in and shattered the moment.

“I think that is quite enough, my Lord,” he sneered, narrowing his yellow eyes. “The brat probably hurt himself wearing those poor-quality shoes.”

“Commander Genthru, if I cannot freely question the suspects, how do you suggest I move on with this investigation?”

Genthru had an answer for everything. “You are not here to ‘question the suspects’, Prince Killua. You expressly asked his Majesty for permission to inspect their _feet_. Engaging in mindless small-talk was not a part of the contract. Leave that to the private investigators who have been paid to do this same job.”

Killua felt mad enough to scream. _He’s my friend!_ , he wanted to argue. _How dare you keep me from talking to him? How dare you bring him to this place?_

In lieu of an outburst, he bit his lip and rose to his feet. “Very well. I shall do as you say. But I believe that it’s within my power to lighten the burdens of our guests, yes? It’s what any good host would do.”

Genthru glowered at him. “They are not guests—”

“I want one of your men to fetch a healing salve from the infirmary,” Killua interrupted. “These people are innocent until proven guilty. We have no evidence that they participated in the heist, save for the size of their feet, which hardly counts as appropriate proof. They have been summoned to stay in _my_ castle, and therefore, I acknowledge them as my guests.”

“I suppose next you’ll be wanting a four-poster bed for each of them,” spat the general.

“My only demand at present is the salve.” He glared at a sentry who was hovering around the exit. “Bring it to me at once.”

The guard awkwardly scampered out of the room, tripping over somebody’s shoe in the process. Killua felt a surge of satisfaction at the effectiveness of his command. He wasn’t an especially huge fan of threatening his inferiors, but if anybody deserved this treatment, it was these guards who thrived off terrorising the public.

“My Lord,” Genthru said, turning to him with a terrible glint in his eyes. “I hope you realise that you cannot order my guards around in this manner.”

“Commander,” he smiled. “If my request pains you this much, maybe you should have tried stopping him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas and happy belated hanukkah to all those that celebrate! i am So sorry for the slowness of the burn in this fic  
> [edit: i realised that i wrote there were nine convicts even though i only mentioned seven, so ive gone back and corrected that ..... maths has failed me]
> 
> **13/2/21: don't worry, this work hasn't been discontinued! i've simply not been getting the time to work on it what with school assignments and general Life Events. i hope i'll be back to you all soon, hopefully by some time in may :D take care!**


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